


The Cleric's Birthright

by Scribo_Vivere



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, BCBB 2019, Bottom Castiel, Clairvoyance, Dubious Consent, Fantasy Romance, M/M, Past Balthazar/Castiel (Supernatural), Telepathy, Top Dean, anthropology professor Castiel, god dean, magic spells and rituals, mentions of other gods and faith practices, soul bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribo_Vivere/pseuds/Scribo_Vivere
Summary: Castiel Novak lost his husband and the love of his life, Balthazar, three years ago in a slaying no one has been able to solve. Burying himself in his work at the university as a leading anthropology professor there, he attempts to put the past behind him. When vicious murders begin to plague him in an eerie replication of Balthazar’s death, Castiel decides to find out on his own what sort of evil has descended upon them all. But the answers he’s looking for may not be so easily found, and the revelation forced upon him could destroy everything he knows - about himself, his world, and the faith he once held so dear. Complicating things is his new relationship with Dean Winchester, who may or may not be what he appears. Why is Castiel inexplicably drawn to him like a moth to the flame?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: Bottom Cas Big Bang 2019





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warning for animal abuse and death**. Much thanks goes to WitchyWishes, xHaruka17x, freeagentgirl, and Ahaviel for their assistance with and continued support of this fic. I adore and cherish each of you.
> 
> I also could not have done this without the wonderful work and support of Yoyo-Deano, my uber-talented and extremely patient artist! 
> 
> As always, thank you to my readers. Your kudos and comments feed my soul and give me the strength to keep writing. XO

“What do you want?”

The question, couched in terror, made the god smile. Of course the poor mortal would be frightened. It had been centuries since his kind had been given their proper due, and quite frankly, the lack of honor and respect was beginning to piss him off.

“What I’ve wanted from the first,” he said softly, lifting the woman’s chin with a finger. “I desire only that which is mine by right.”

“Please,” she sobbed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just let me go home.”  
  


“Home?” Rage filled the heart of the god. “Why should I allow such a thing? Why should you not feel the grief I do?”  
  


“You’re insane!” she shrieked, pulling frantically at her bonds as she knelt upon the cold, wet October ground.

The god watched impassively. The enchanted shackles would not give unless he willed it so, and he had no intention of releasing the creature before him who was nothing more than cannon fodder for what he wanted most. 

“You seem not to understand. There is a consequence for every action.” He allowed his eyes to turn their true color in his fury, and she gasped. “What are you? Let me go!”

“Your race assumes that those such as I must heed your demands. They have much to learn - and you, my child, shall be the first example.”

There were none to hear her screams for mercy, and soon enough, they were silenced. Disinterestedly, the god stepped over her cooling body and raised his eyes to the dark sky, watching as a rook silently circled above before banking to the west. 

These were only the beginning of birth pangs.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Castiel Novak tossed in his bed, his tightly closed eyes fluttering behind his lids. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat as the sheets tangled around his body like the arms of death.

A resounding crash jolted him from unconsciousness, and with a sharp yell, he bolted upright, lightning illuminating every shape in his bedroom. Rain pounded against the windows, and as he watched, another bolt split the skies. Downstairs, his five month old collie mix began to bark in her cage. 

Wiping a hand over his face, Castiel swung his legs over the side of the bed and flicked on the lamp. In the sudden burst of light, he squinted, willing his sight to adjust. The clock read three a.m. on the dot, and chills slid down the man’s spine.

For three years, ever since his husband, Balthazar Roche, had been mysteriously murdered, Castiel had been plagued by horrific nightmares. Despite having been to many doctors and psychiatrists, they could only offer weekly appointments to “talk out” his trauma and prescribe sleeping meds, none of which helped. Eventually, Castiel had given up on all of it, praying that somehow, he would be given relief. But the powers at large did not answer him, and still, every night, Castiel suffered vivid dreams that disturbed his rest. 

The only problem was that he could never recall them upon waking, and it left him with a bone-chilling sense of dread and the urge to flee - or else prepare for battle with unknown assailants of the dark.

If Castiel didn’t know better, he would have said he was slowly going mad. But the feeling of a presence, or presences, after each episode were far too real.

Castiel sighed and stood, wrapping himself in his thick blue bathrobe before padding downstairs. The dog whined at the sight of him, and Castiel opened the crate. Immediately the female came to him, pushing herself into his leg, and Castiel could feel her tremble at the next peal of thunder. 

“It’s all right,” he soothed, reaching down to run his fingers through her silky, thick brown and white fur. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Mollie Jean.”

As if she understood - and Castiel had no doubt that she did, in her own way - Mollie yawned and followed her owner as he went to the kitchen to start a pot of water for some tea. The stovetop clock now read twelve past three, and Castiel fought back a shiver as he recalled the events that had brought him downstairs in the first place.

The lighting seemed to have let up, but the rain still lashed the house. Castiel was glad that he had heeded the weatherman’s directive to bring in his patio furniture, as the wind was now causing the limbs of the pines in his yard to sway and creak with ominous moans.

The water in the pan was boiling, and Castiel turned it off, pouring it over the teabag and wrapping his hands around the thick black mug. The scent of lemongrass and honey filled his nostrils, and Castiel let out a shaky sigh. 

The lights above the dining table flickered just as a particularly nasty gust of wind set something to rattling, and Castiel backed himself into the corner between his refrigerator and the sink, his heart pounding.

He nearly bit through his tongue when the cell phone he’d left to charge on the countertop chirped, and with an audible gulp, Castiel grabbed it. A message was waiting for him, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw it was from his best friend, Meg Masters.

_ \ I can’t sleep. But somehow, I don’t think I woke you up. / _

Castiel quickly typed back, tea forgotten, fingers flying over the tiny keyboard.

_ \ You didn’t. The storm did. /  _ He paused, debating whether to tell her the truth, but realized that if she was texting him at nearly three fifteen in the morning, chances were she already knew what was wrong. This time, his typing was slower, almost weary.

_ \ I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time, Meg. The nightmares aren’t getting any better. In fact, they’re becoming worse. I...I feel like they’re eating me whole. / _

It was a few minutes before she replied.

_ \ You can’t keep pretending that everything is fine, Clarence. It’s probably going to piss you off that I’m saying this, but I don’t think you should have ever stopped therapy or the meds they gave you. Even if they weren’t exactly life-savers, at least they allowed you to carry on somewhat normally. I’m really worried about you. / _

Castiel couldn’t stop the small smile that crossed his lips at the use of her nickname for him. One Christmas, shortly before Balthazar died, upon realizing that he’d never seen  _ It’s A Wonderful Life,  _ Meg had taken it upon herself to demand they all watch it. Balthazar had rolled his eyes and offered to leave them to their “cheesy movie fest”, but in the end, they’d all ended up glued to the TV screen, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor as they ate popcorn and cookies and sipped on hot chocolate. Somehow, the two of them had come to the mutual opinion that Castiel was as joyful - and clueless at times - as Clarence the angel from the film, and the name had stuck. 

Sudden tears welled up in Castiel’s eyes, and he typed frantically.

_ \ I miss Balth so much, Meg. You have a right to worry. I haven’t been the same since he died, and what haunts me the most is that it’s a cold case. No one knows how he died or why, and it’s killed me inside for three years. I can’t sleep, I barely eat; hell, I can barely concentrate at work, and you know how much I love my job. I just want things to be the way they were before. It’s not fair. / _

Meg’s response was nearly immediate.

_ \ I know it isn’t, and I wish that there was something I could do to make things better. I loved Balthazar too, and I’d be lying if I said the police did a good job of trying to solve his case. We both know they didn’t, and for that, I’m sorry, Clarence. / _

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, trying in vain to stem a massive headache that was starting. A lone tear slipped from the corner of his eye and splashed upon the phone, and he let out a wrecked sob.

Mollie buried her cold nose against his wrist, her tongue lapping at the inside of it in a gesture of comfort. Castiel smiled weakly, gently running his fingers up and down between her eyes, just the way she liked it, and murmured, “You’re my good girl.”

His phone chirped again.

_ \ I have the day off today from work. Do you want me to come over later? / _

Castiel sighed. While the gesture was appreciated, he had too much paperwork to do, and the people he worked under, understanding though they had been, were now carefully approaching the idea that if he could, Castiel needed to return to work. 

_ \ Thank you, Meg, but I’m going back to Milton University tomorrow. I have to keep my mind occupied. / _

With her typical amount of exasperated concern, Meg replied,  _ \ You know I want you to do something besides lose yourself in your grief, but is this really a good idea right now? I’d hate to see you crack under all the pressure from the university, and end up worse off than you are now. /  _

The phone was silent for another few seconds, and then she messaged him again, in what seemed to be a gentler tone.

_ \ Please know I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I care about you, and I just want you to be healthy and happy. / _

Castiel smiled bitterly as he typed his reply.

_ \ Healthy? Perhaps. But happy? No, Meg. Never again. / _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“Well, aren’t you just a bundle of sunshine this morning.”

Castiel poured a steaming cup of coffee in the administrators’ lounge as his fellow colleague Amara Bradshaw entered and removed her sunglasses, staring at him for so long that he began to grind his teeth. Something about the woman had always made him wary. She was pleasant enough, but there was an edge to her, a darkness, which Castiel wasn’t certain he ever wanted to see.

“Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult?” he asked, perhaps a little sharper than he’d intended, and Amara chuckled, making her way on smart black pumps toward the elegant espresso machine next to Castiel. 

“I suppose it depends on the way you look at it,” she replied smoothly, and placed a cup under the spout before turning to face him fully, her dark brown eyes piercing.

“Given that you’re so short-tempered, and” - she peered at the black liquid sitting in his mug - “you’ve forgotten to add sugar and cream to your morning brew as you usually do, I’d venture a guess that today is not a good day.”   
  


Too tired to argue or pretend, Castiel simply sighed. “Is it really that obvious?”   
  


A whirring noise and the rich smell of hazelnut cappuccino filled the air as Amara hummed, delicately adding a pinch of sugar to her drink. “Unfortunately, my dear, it is.” She took a sip of her concoction and leaned back against the counter, her eyes on him once more. 

“You’ve been having bad dreams about someone you lost.”   
  


Castiel’s shoulders stiffened. Though he’d divulged little to most of the other people he worked with, he had told Amara absolutely nothing about his struggles. Therefore, the uncanny statement caused him to be all the more cautious.

She caught the look on his face, replying simply, “Grief has a signature.” 

“Be that as it may, I’m not comfortable sharing my secrets with those I barely know,” Castiel snapped. He was exhausted and sad, and wasn’t in the mood for games.

Amara unexpectedly reached out to cup his chin. Too startled to break free, Castiel froze, and she held his gaze while speaking softly.

“Hide that secret too long, and it might destroy you in the end.”

Before Castiel could ask her what exactly that meant, she turned away and picked up her cup. Over her shoulder, she said nonchalantly, “I hope that I see you around more often.”

Watching her walk out of the lounge, Castiel shivered. Everything in him prayed he would have no more interactions with the woman, though he couldn’t place why.

. . .

Castiel continued to scrawl notes on the whiteboard of the lecture hall as he spoke, not bothering to turn around. He knew that his class would be diligent in copying them.

“The perspective of Ariel Glucklich hinges on the idea that those who practice magic are aware of the workings of their craft on an intuitive level. Be warned, however, that his views are also based mostly on his own experience, and therefore may be misleading to some. Gilbert Lewis has also been influential in the theory that such practitioners do not look for a reason behind what they do; they are simply able to produce the results they desire or intend. Robin Horton asserts that Western and non-Western peoples both use common sense, and also science and magic to explain what they cannot understand.”

At that point, Castiel turned back to the class to find a number of hands raised, and nodded to a tall, slim brunette in the front row. Her name escaped him, but she’d always been involved in their often-lively class discussions .

“Professor Novak,” she began, “since we’re covering it, can you tell us what your own feelings are on this subject?”

Castiel tilted his head. “On magic?”

“Yes,” she replied - almost in a challenging way, he thought. “I was wondering, as I’m sure most of my classmates are, if you actually believe all of this. What you teach, I mean.”

Castiel smiled patiently. “I’ve always made it a point to maintain an objective viewpoint. With that being said, I wouldn’t dismiss the idea that there are things we can’t explain in the natural world.”

“Like your husband’s death?”

Shocked gasps were heard throughout the hall, and Castiel watched as the girl turned a bright shade of red before switching to white, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

“Oh my god,” she babbled. “I’m so sorry, Professor, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that, I was just trying to - I just wanted to separate fact from fiction-”

“I make it a point not to discuss my personal life,” he interrupted her, his tone clipped and curt. “If there are any more questions - ones that relate only to the  _ material _ \- I will be happy to answer them briefly. If not” - he checked his watch - “the lecture is over. You all may go. Remember that next week’s meeting is a study group; there will be no formal class.”

Quiet murmurs abounded as the students gathered their things and departed. Soon, Castiel was the only one remaining in the lecture hall, and he began to erase the whiteboard with a vicious ferocity that surprised him. When it was clean, he turned to unplug his laptop. 

Clapping alerted him to the fact that he was not as alone as he’d thought. Looking up sharply, Castiel relaxed when he saw it was only Meg, making her way down the upper rows of seats toward him. 

“You handled that well,” she commented. “I probably would have beat the crap out of that chick for being so damn rude.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I hardly think that would go over well with the college president or the police.”   
  


Meg chuckled. “Good point.” Leaning her hip against his desk, she said softly, “Unfortunately, there are going to be some people that don’t understand how much you’ve gone through and are going to be as uncouth - or worse - than your student. How are you going to handle it?”   
  


Slinging his satchel over his shoulder, Castiel sighed heavily. “Honestly, Meg, I haven’t thought about it. I’m just trying to get by day by day, and not spend my nights drowning in wine and misery.”   
  


Sympathy filled Meg’s eyes. “You need a massive distraction.”

“Please don’t try to set me up on another date,” he said sharply. “The last one was horrific.”

Meg chuckled. “I didn’t think she was that bad.”

“She talked incessantly, dressed entirely inappropriately for the restaurant we were at, and was almost fifteen years younger than me,” Castiel said pointedly, and Meg began to squirm slightly under his scrutiny.

“Her profile on Zoosk never mentioned that.”

Castiel snorted. “This is why I don’t go on those sites. No one is ever really what they appear.”   
  


Meg hurried to catch up with him as he strode down the hall. “Okay, so no more dates. But would you at least consider getting out of the house another way?”   
  


“Such as?” Castiel’s tone was suspicious, and Meg slid on her sunglasses as they stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight. Students milled around the campus, most of them on a dinner break before their next class, and the two were hard-pressed to find their way to the parking lot. 

Meg placed her sunglasses atop her head as they reached her gray Mazda.

“There’s a gala at the nearby museum tonight. They’re doing a benefit auction for the local police and fire department. Admission is half off for members of any college faculty.” 

“Meg-”

“You don’t need to do anything except wander around and look at the art all night, if that’s your prerogative,” she replied, cutting him off. “But I really think that trying to get back into something resembling a social life will be good for you.” In a softer tone, she added, “I know what happened to Balthazar broke your heart and your spirit, but you can’t hide forever. Just think about it.”

Castiel watched her drive off. She had only ever wanted the best for him, and he knew, deep down, that she was right. Isolating himself for the rest of his life wasn’t something that his lover would have wanted. Castiel could see him in his mind, rolling his eyes as he chided, “ _ Just because I’m dead, Cassie, doesn’t mean you need to be.” _

Tears gathering on his lashes, Castiel drew a breath and looked at the address Meg had pressed into his hand. He supposed that stepping outside of his pain and grief for a night could possibly be a first step towards healing.

As he opened the door to his own vehicle and slid inside, he never noticed the pair of eyes watching him from across the courtyard.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Castiel tugged at his collar for what seemed like the hundredth time. He was used to showing up at the university to teach in jeans, work boots, and either a Henley or a sweater, depending on the season. Now, he wore black dress pants, shined leather shoes, a white button-up shirt, a blue tie, and a long, tan trench coat. Staring at his reflection in the nearby glass of an exhibit, he snorted. He looked like a tax accountant. 

“You certainly clean up nice.”   
  


The voice was familiar, and Castiel turned, a polite - if forced - smile on his lips. “Good evening, Ms. Bradshaw.”

She chuckled. “Oh, do call me Amara. We work together, after all. There’s no need for formality.”   
  


Castiel kept the smile as he replied, “Forgive me, but we hardly see each other.”

Amara’s red lips turned up in something like a smirk, and she stepped forward. “Perhaps we should change that, then.”

“Castiel!”

Meg appeared at his side then, and Castiel didn’t miss the way Amara’s gaze grew slightly icy as she appraised the other woman. For her part, Meg glared right back.

At last Amara raised her flute of champagne, the expression on her face as she looked at Castiel slightly cooler than before. “To a night of pleasant surprises,  _ Mr. Novak _ .”

Meg waited until Amara was out of earshot, and then turned to Castiel, her pretty features twisted in a frown. “Who was that tramp?”

Castiel couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. “That was one of my colleagues from the university.”

Meg’s brows rose. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” Castiel shook his head. “Something about her makes me extremely uneasy. I don’t know what it is, or why I feel that way.”   
  


Meg snorted. “She makes me uneasy too. The last thing you need is to get your bones jumped by some slut.”

Castiel shook his head once more. The feisty brunette had always spoken her mind, and it appeared that where Amara Bradshaw was concerned, there was no exception to that rule.

Meg glanced at her phone, seemingly having forgotten about Amara as she pulled at Castiel’s arm. “Come on, Mr. Irresistible. The auction is going to begin in ten minutes, and we have to get to the other gallery.”

Castiel let himself be dragged along, and soon they were seated in a large auditorium. Hundreds of different items were displayed up front on the large stage, and Meg shoved her elbow in his side. 

“Would you look at that?” she murmured, as the auctioneer took his place behind the podium, gavel in hand. “Some of that stuff people would kill to have.”   
  


“I’m sure there have been plenty of wars over much of it,” Castiel murmured back, slightly astonished. The lights above their heads flashed off bronze, silver, and gold artifacts, some of them likely worth as much as ten or twenty times Castiel’s annual salary. 

“Hey, check that out.” Meg pointed to something that sat almost obscured amidst the rest of the pieces, and Castiel leaned forward to peer at it. 

“A book?” he asked no one in particular, and Meg grinned at him. 

“Knowing how much of a reader you are, I’ll bet you half my check next week that you’re going to try to out-call everyone in this room for that.”   
  


Castiel threw her an amused look. “I highly doubt that. Unless it’s hiding something extremely worthwhile in its pages, I don’t plan on losing my life savings for something else that will sit on my shelf untouched for months before I get around to it.”   
  


“Yeah, okay, bookworm,” Meg ribbed him.

For a long time, Castiel simply sat and watched the items disappear into the hands of their new owners. However, he found he couldn’t stop his heart from leaping every time something near the book left the stage, and unconsciously, he fingered his wallet. 

The book in itself was unassuming, a simple, thick tome bound in deerskin, held closed with a frayed piece of red leather. It seemed fragile, but Castiel somehow knew that it was anything but.

“And here,” the auctioneer said, startling Castiel from his thoughts, “we have a codex from Greece, presumably written in the sixth century B.C. Let me warn you that unless you have a handle on that language, anything within will likely be undecipherable.”

The comment sent a ripple of laughter throughout the room, which quickly dissipated as the auctioneer said loudly, “Let the bidding begin. Who will offer five hundred dollars?”   
  


A hand shot up, and Castiel bit his lip. Five hundred dollars was nothing to sneer at, but he certainly didn’t want to spend what he’d brought. 

“Five hundred; do I hear one thousand?” 

Another hand lifted, and the auctioneer appeared pleased. The bidding continued, and Castiel felt his hope of ever attaining the book slowly begin to fade. 

Suddenly, a rich, deep voice called out, “Twenty thousand dollars.”

The crowd let out gasps and cries, and there was a scramble as people began to turn to see who would be so bold as to bid such an insane amount for a single book. Meg had already switched positions in her seat, craning her neck almost to the breaking point in order to get a glimpse of the stranger. 

Castiel squinted over her head. In the very back of the auditorium stood a man that Castiel realized at once had a commanding presence. A pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt hugged his form, and his booted feet made hardly a sound as he approached the auctioneer, who looked dumbfounded.

“May I ask you to repeat that, sir?” 

“Of course.I’m offering twenty thousand dollars for this item.”   
  


Castiel’s eyes flicked to the book. Without thinking, he grabbed for his wallet, and Meg hissed, “What are you doing? That’s almost everything you’ve saved for the past three years! Are you completely-”

“Twenty thousand and one,” Castiel called out quickly, and stood.

This time, the uproar was even louder, and the auctioneer went white. Castiel had a moment to take in the pair of forest green eyes that landed on him, and even as he shivered inexplicably, a small smile drew the other man’s lips upward. He inclined his head, and the auctioneer swallowed audibly into the microphone.

“Twenty thousand and one,” he repeated. “Going once...going twice…sold to the gentleman in the middle row!”

Cheers erupted, and Castiel felt a bit lightheaded as he was led to the stage and handed his prize. From her seat, Meg crossed her arms and huffed loudly, clearly not impressed with his extremely rash, likely-to-be-regretted-later decision.

As soon as the book was in his grasp, Castiel felt an overwhelming urge to hide somewhere and open it immediately. The feeling was so strong that it felt as though he was being burned alive from the inside, and he trembled at the force of it. 

When he looked up to thank the original bidder for relinquishing his spoils, the other man was nowhere to be seen.

. . .

“I still can’t believe that you spent almost the entire nest egg you and Balthazar created for a  _ book _ ,” Meg snarled, as they entered Castiel’s kitchen later that night. “I know you’ve been having a hard time lately, Cas, but that was absolute stupidity on your part.”

Castiel ignored her, laying the item in question down carefully on the center island. “I needed it.”

“Are you serious?” Meg asked incredulously, as she turned away from the refrigerator, a glass of deep red wine in her hand. “You  _ needed  _ it? It’s just reading material! Don’t you think there are more important things you could have done with twenty plus grand?”   
  


Castiel frowned. For some strange reason, he felt protective of the book, and immediately, as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt himself flush. Perhaps Meg was right. Maybe he had made a decision that was too reckless and rash...but there was something about the book he couldn’t explain. It  _ called  _ to him, almost as if by way of magic.

Gently, Castiel ran his fingers over the leather. Magic wasn’t real, he reminded himself sternly. His feelings were likely the result of pride and joy at having been the one to win the item.

Meg was peering over his shoulder, a frown on her face. “That’s weird. Wasn’t the cover blank earlier?”

Surprised, Castiel looked down. Where indeed there had been nothing before, what appeared to be a child’s attempt at creating the letter ‘c’ was etched into the deerskin. “I…” Castiel started, at a loss, and Meg sighed, finishing the rest of her wine.

“Looks like you spent twenty grand on something that’s been vandalized.” She squeezed his shoulder. “I’m heading out. It’s almost eleven, and I have work tomorrow.”   
  


“Drive safe,” Castiel replied, still staring at the book. Meg chuckled.

“I will. And you - don’t stay up all night with that thing.” 

Castiel listened as the front door clicked shut, and then there was only the sound of an empty house.

Willing his racing heart to slow, he stared hard at the book. There had been no indication that anything was wrong with it when he’d won it at the auction, and Castiel was certain there had been no markings on it then. Either he was losing his mind, or something else was going on here.

Padding into the living room, he went to the massive bookshelf that faced his couch and skimmed through it until he found what he was looking for on the third tier. He’d hardly ever touched the books within the case; most had been Balthazar’s, and honestly, Castiel had been slightly unnerved at most of the titles. Many of them looked like something one would find in a dark arts shop, and he vividly remembered Balthazar’s response as he’d told him so.

_ “I thought you didn’t believe in magic, Cassie?” _

_ “I don’t,” Castiel grumbled. “I’m just trying to keep a positive, light-filled house, and those books are-” _

_ “What’s the matter, hmm?” Balthazar hemmed him in against the couch, his eyes shining with lust. “How do you know I’m not trying to spice up our sex life?” _

_ “With those?” Castiel had laughed outright at that. “What exactly do potions and spells have to do with sex?” _

_ “Oh, they can create a lot of magic in the bedroom, darling.” _

There’d been no more talk after that, and Castiel swallowed hard at the memory, returning to the kitchen. Perching on a bar stool, he opened Balthazar’s copy of  _ Rune Magicks  _ and leafed through it. Many of the pages were dog-eared, with highlighted entries and notes taken in the margin in his late husband’s elegant scrawl. At last, he paused, finger resting on a familiar image.

“Peorth,” he murmured, and glanced at the mark on the other book’s cover. They matched, and a chill ran down Castiel’s spine as he read on to himself. 

_ This rune may be read as Initiation - into a different way of thinking and being. It is closely associated with the mystical Phoenix, whose secret, hidden ways are sought but rarely found. It may also represent a death of some sort - the letting go of that which no longer serves one, perhaps - divination, and magickal luck.  _

_ Do not be deceived: the rite of Initiation is not for the faint of heart. _

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Castiel muttered. He sorely needed a strong drink, and got up to pour two fingers of Glenlivet from the minibar. The burn as it slid down his throat was a welcome distraction from his confusion and pain, and with a short sigh, he added more to the glass and lifted it to his lips. Glancing at the books again, his eyes widened.

“What the hell?”   
  


The auctioned book was open, and Castiel was one hundred percent certain that he’d not done it himself. Once more, chills ran down his back. He hesitated to approach it, and then mentally slapped himself.  _ It’s not as though it’s going to bite you, damn it. Stop being such an idiot.  _ Setting his jaw, Castiel marched over, intent on closing the thing, putting it in the bookshelf, and forgetting about it. 

As soon as his hands touched the edges of the deerskin, what felt like an electric shock ran throughout his body. Castiel jerked from the force of it, his head spinning. When his vision finally cleared, he saw unfamiliar letters scrawled across the gleaming white pages.

Leaning over the book, Castiel gently traced the writings. The auctioneer had said it was an ancient Greek manuscript, and it was clear that he had been correct. Castiel was an avid student of languages in his spare time, so deciphering the meaning of the words wasn’t an issue. The problem was what, exactly, he was reading, because as far as Castiel was concerned, it made no sense. 

_ “From affliction and fire will two become one. Temptation will come in many forms, but forsaken it not. That which is most peculiar shall yield great fruit,”  _ he murmured, and snorted. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Rubbing his eyes, Castiel looked up wearily at the clock. It read one forty-five, and he smirked.  _ So much for going to sleep early, _ he thought, and stood, stretching. As he walked through the house, checking doors and turning lights off, Mollie Jean followed him everywhere. Chuckling, Castiel reached down to scratch her neck under the collar she wore.

“Let’s forget about spells and crazy books for tonight, hmm, sweetie?”

She looked up at him, her broad pink tongue lolling out almost in a grin. Shaking his head at his fear from earlier, Castiel led the way upstairs.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

_ Darkness surrounded him, branches thrashing him in the face as he ran. The forest was cold, and the loam underneath his bare, bleeding feet stung, but he was intent on his desire to get away. They couldn’t have him! He wouldn’t become the next sacrifice to their crazed god. _

_ Breath coming in harsh, frightened gasps, he leapt over a fallen log. It was just a few more feet until he could reach the final leg of the woods; after that, he would once again see civilization. _

_ A figure stepped in his path before he could stop his momentum, and Castiel tumbled onto his ass, crying out in pain as his ankle twisted underneath him with a sickening crack. Dragging himself backwards, he begged, “No...please, don’t do this. Just let me go!” _

_ A voice that Castiel was sure he knew came from under the figure’s cloak. “There’s no going back now. You’ve put into motion elements that cannot be reversed.” _ _   
  
_

_ When the cloak was pushed back to reveal its owner, Castiel could only stare in shock.  _

_ “Balthazar?” _

_ His lover stared at him with something very much like sadness in his eyes, and Castiel felt his heart, which had begun to slow, start to race once more. _

_ “What is it?” he whispered. “What’s happening, Balthazar?” _ _   
  
_

_ Balthazar sighed, the sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “I told you. You’ve played with fire, and it’s going to burn you.” _ _   
  
_

_ “What are you talking about?” Dread, strong and terrible, filled Castiel. “Does this have to do with the book I got at the auction?” _

_ Balthazar looked over Castiel’s shoulder, and simply said, “I’m sorry, Cassie. I can’t help you now.” He stepped back. _

_ Inhuman noises were making themselves known in the blackness behind him, and Castiel struggled to get to his feet, terror spiraling throughout him as they grew nearer. Something was out there, and it was intent on devouring him alive. _

_ “Don’t go, Balthazar - please! Don’t let them take me,” he cried. _

_ The other man drew the cloak’s hood up once more, his eyes focused on Castiel’s face, but now they were a forest green, filled with hunger.  _

_ “It’s too late.” The voice was a sibilant hiss, no longer Balthazar’s, and Castiel began to hyperventilate as long, spindly arms reached for him out of the gloom.  _

_ “No….no…NO!” _

. . .

Mollie Jean’s frightened barking, along with the sound of something crashing to the floor, jarred Castiel back into the land of reality immediately. It took him a moment to realize that the noise had been caused by himself: he was tangled in his bedding on the floor, and he’d somehow managed to drag the bedside lamp with him, which had - miraculously - missed his skull by only a few inches.

Carefully sitting up and flinching at the bright sunlight spilling through his curtains, Castiel sighed wearily. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to withstand waking up to a pounding heart, sweaty palms, and absolutely no memory of what he’d dreamed that had left him so filled with fear. Except…

Castiel scrubbed a hand over his face. This time, he remembered everything, right down to the eyes that had speared him with such power, presence...and lust.

He shivered, pulling the thick comforter that had made it to the floor with him around his body, thanking every deity he knew that he didn’t have to go to the university and teach, owing to it being Columbus Day. He was fairly certain that he would not have been able to focus on anything other than what had been an exhausting few days.

The collie nudged at him, her wet nose under his armpit making him laugh despite himself, and Castiel pulled her close, grateful for her presence. Thrilled at the attention, Mollie Jean licked his face furiously, her tail wagging. Castiel showered her with love for a few moments before it became apparent that she was in desperate need of a trip outside, and he dragged himself to his feet, righting the lamp. Thankfully, neither it nor the bulb had shattered. He paused briefly, staring at the sheets, and then shrugged, gathering them up before dumping the entire mess in the laundry basket to be done later.

Filling the dog’s food and water bowls as she completed her duties in the spacious backyard, Castiel tried not to think of what had caused his flight to the floor. The nightmares had always been present, but now they were truly invading his life. Castiel couldn’t help but wonder if Meg was right - maybe it was time that he allowed himself to go back to therapy, even if only to receive some type of medication that would help him to stay unconscious throughout the night.

Mollie Jean scratched at the door, and absently, Castiel let her in to have her breakfast. When he moved to the cabinet above the sink to reach for a coffee mug, he froze.

The two books from the evening before were still resting on the island, and he stared at them balefully. They had apparently been the cause of his night terrors, and Castiel felt his right hand clench into a fist. A sudden, irrepressible urge to burn the damn things took hold of him. After all, if he hadn’t been so intent on investigating what was, obviously, something he should have never been so eager to explore in the first place, he might not be standing there in his kitchen with a seriously sore body and a very unquiet mind.

As quickly as the feeling had come, it vanished, leaving Castiel cold and empty. He could never destroy anything that was Balthazar’s, even if they were causing strange things to happen. All that he had left of the man now were some of his clothes, painful memories...and his books. To give up any one of those was something that Castiel could not bear to do.

Tears filled Castiel’s eyes once more, and he angrily swiped a hand across his face. His love for Balthazar was still strong and pure, even after three years, and Castiel knew that it would likely never wane. No matter how many counseling sessions he attended, medications he tried, or words of sympathy he heard, nothing would ever be the same again. Balthazar had been killed in a horrific way that, even after so long, remained a mystery to those that should have been able to bring the perpetrator of his lover’s grisly murder to justice. Castiel had vowed in the beginning to explore every avenue and track down every lead, insignificant though it might seem, but after some time, the authorities had grown weary of his constant questions, calls, and demands, and Castiel had been politely yet firmly told he was overstepping his bounds. 

The tragedy had completely derailed Castiel’s once-vibrant Protestant faith, and he had stopped attending church, though he’d been encouraged by many that it could help him work through his grief - and if nothing else, it would offer a sense of community. But Castiel had found that there were not many in the congregation who had agreed with his lifestyle choices, and now that Balthazar - who had stood up for the both of them often in the face of such disdain and often blatant hatred - was no longer there to ease the sting of their thinly-veiled comments and sideways glances, Castiel could find no one that would stand by him. He had come seeking peace, but it had eluded him.

Castiel was certain that it always would.

. . .

Mollie Jean had been promised a trip to the dog park for weeks, and Castiel had not delivered. Wanting to alleviate his mind from the turmoil it was under - if only for a few hours - Castiel drove them both across town.

It was a sunny afternoon, if a bit brisk, and Castiel pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his neck as he watched Mollie Jean romp around with the other dogs, grinning when she came across an adorable bulldog about her age, and the two began a tug of war on a stray stick that was, in all honesty, much too large for either of them to hold in their mouths.

“Is this seat taken?”   
  


Castiel turned. Standing beside the bench was a gentleman with dark blonde hair, an affable smile, and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. But the most striking thing about him were his eyes, and Castiel swallowed tightly. They were the color of freshly-cut grass, and the memory of his dream came rushing back.

The man’s smile faded a bit, and he said carefully, “I take it that’s a yes.”

Castiel internally kicked himself, sliding over. “No, no, it’s open. I apologize. My mind has been...not where it should be lately.”

A chuckle left the other man’s lips, which, Castiel noticed, were full and pink. “That makes two of us. Actually, that probably makes half the general population.”

Castiel smirked. “I won’t argue with you on that.” Glancing around, he asked curiously, “Where’s your dog?”   
  


“Oh!” The man looked a bit embarrassed. “I don’t actually own one. I just come to watch all the other animals play with each other. It makes me feel better.” Quietly, he added, “That way I’m not alone. I lost someone very close to me, and...it’s been hard getting back into living my life the way I know they’d want me to.”

Castiel fought the lump that tried to grow in his throat. “I understand,” he replied softly, and the other man looked over at him, surprised. Castiel tried not to let his voice tremble as he continued, “My husband died three years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” was the gentle reply, and Castiel sighed. “Thank you. I’m just trying to take things on a day-to-day basis.” Holding out a hand, he said, “I’m Castiel Novak.”

“Dean Winchester.” The man’s grip was firm and strong. “So, what dog is yours?”

Castiel scanned the myriad of canines in the park, and laughed as he pointed to a group by the fence. “See the one that’s brown and white?”

Dean grinned. “The one who’s currently trying to wrestle the giant Labrador Retriever to the ground - unsuccessfully, I might add?”

Castiel laughed. “That would be her.” He whistled. “Mollie Jean! Come here, girl!”

Amicably, she trotted over, but when she was a mere few feet from Dean, the female stopped in her tracks. The fur on the back of her neck rose, and she crouched low, baring her teeth as she growled.

“Mollie Jean!” Castiel scolded, astonished. “Stop that!”

The dog ignored him, sliding lower to the ground until she was almost on her belly, her growls increasing. Castiel rose, leash in hand, and snapped, “Enough! Come!”

She did not heed him. Dean slowly rose, his hands out in a placating gesture, and said gently, “I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Mollie Jean paused, and Castiel thought that she had finally stood down. He replaced the leash in his pocket, satisfied that she had done what she had been trained to do; obey. 

Suddenly, before Castiel could cry out a warning or stop her, the dog had launched herself at Dean, jaws snapping together.

  
  


Quicker than Castiel could follow, Dean had caught Mollie in his arms and tumbled to the dirt. His heart in his throat, Castiel hurried over, but instead of a bleeding stranger, he found Mollie cowering a few feet away, whimpering. 

Utterly confused, and more than a little upset with his pet, Castiel extended a hand to Dean, who was just getting to one knee. “I’m so very sorry. She’s never done that before in her life.”

Dean allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, brushing leaves and grass off his jeans, and shook his head. “It’s not your fault. She doesn’t know me and was just protecting you. I’m not angry with her.”   
  


“I am,” Castiel huffed, and glared in Mollie Jean’s direction. She laid down immediately, her eyes filled with regret, and Dean chuckled. 

“I hope I’m not being too bold, but don’t go too hard on her. Seems like you two have a great relationship.”   
  


Castiel sat beside Dean on the bench again, and Mollie Jean crept over to sit by his feet. Unable to ignore her, Castiel reached down to scratch her right ear as he said, “We do. My late husband was set on having a dog, but we couldn’t agree on a breed. Then one day, we were driving home from a dinner date and saw her shivering in a flimsy cardboard box by the side of the road. It was pouring out, and she was just a newborn puppy crying for someone to save her. Balthazar pulled the car over, and I jumped out and wrapped her in my coat. It was obvious that she’d been cruelly abandoned, and it took weeks for her to come around. One night I came home from work to find her sound asleep on Balthazar’s lap. It was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen.”

Dean had been watching Castiel as he spoke. When the other man swiped at his eyes, Dean said quietly, “How did he die?”   
  


Castiel swallowed. “He was murdered. The authorities never solved it, and now it’s a cold case.”   
  


Dean looked horrified. “Jesus, man. I’m sorry I asked; I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”   
  


Castiel continued to pet the dog, his eyes focused on a spot in the distance. “It’s all right. You didn’t know.” 

There was an awkward silence for a few moments, and then Dean cleared his throat.

“Look, I know this is probably me being way too forward as usual, but could we meet for coffee sometime? As potential friends,” he amended quickly, noting how the color drained from Castiel’s face, his eyes widening slightly. “I’m not a stalker, or a pervert, or some type of freak. I just…” He paused and looked down, his voice now very quiet. “I’m doing my best not to withdraw completely into myself. My therapist said I should get out and try to enjoy life again. I understand if you’d rather not meet up.”

Castiel watched as Dean physically and emotionally began to shrink away, and felt a great deal of empathy. He couldn’t find it in himself to be so indifferent as to reject the invitation, so he said, “When?”   
  


It was strangely gratifying to see a spark of hope spring to life in Dean’s eyes. “You’re accepting?”

“Isolation only creates more pain,” Castiel said softly. “Believe me, if there’s a poster child for that statement, it’s sitting next to you,” he added wryly, and Dean snorted. 

“I doubt that. My therapist called me a ‘living Eeyore’.”

“Well, that was encouraging.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean grumbled, but a small, relieved smile lay upon his lips. He fumbled in his jacket for a moment, then sighed. 

“I left my phone at home. I can’t take your number down to confirm the meeting. I mean,” he stammered, a blush that Castiel found to be undeniably adorable staining his cheeks, “if you even want to trade phone numbers.”   
  


Castiel already had his cell out, and Dean rattled off his digits as Castiel entered them into his contacts. 

“I can call you to make sure we’re still on for coffee,” he offered, and Dean nodded, standing.

“Well, uh, it was nice to talk to you,” he began awkwardly.

“Are we really going to be that formal after exchanging phone numbers and agreeing to meet for drinks, not even an hour into our conversation?”

Dean’s face turned redder, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m terrible at this,” he muttered, and Castiel grinned. 

“At what? Picking up random strangers in the dog park?”   
  


“Yes - I mean, no! I wasn’t trying to - that’s not-”

The way Dean couldn’t seem to pull himself together made Castiel laugh out loud. “I’m only joking.” He held out his hand, which Dean took. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Dean. I’m looking forward to our coffee date.”

Too late, he realized he’d said the word ‘date’, and now it was Castiel’s turn to flush. Dean watched as bright red crept up around the other man’s ears, unable to look away.

Mollie Jean’s bark brought the two back to the present, and they quickly let their hands drop. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Dean promised, and with a small wave, turned and walked away.

Castiel attached the leash to Mollie Jean’s collar, frowning as her eyes focused on him almost reproachfully. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s only coffee.”

But as he walked her home, Castiel couldn’t stop himself from hoping it might turn into something more - and he had no idea why he felt that way.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_ “You’ve got to wake up, love.” _

_ Castiel rolled over to gaze into the eyes of his dead husband, unable to stop himself from reaching out to caress Balthazar’s stubbled cheek.  _

_ “I don’t want to,” he replied in a murmur. “Dreaming of you is the only way I can keep you alive.” _

_ Balthazar pulled him close, lips brushing Castiel’s forehead. “Living in the past is no way to go through life.” _

_ “I don’t care,” Castiel whispered. “I can’t lose you.” _

_ At that, Balthazar pulled away. Castiel reached out for him, but his hand met only the pillows. Sitting up, Castiel watched Balthazar as he stood at the foot of the bed, his expression resigned and sad. _

_ “What’s the matter?” Castiel asked. “This isn’t the first time you’ve given me the impression that something is going to go very wrong in the near future.” _

_ Balthazar was silent for a long time before he answered, his voice quiet.  _

_ “They’re already going wrong, Cassie. The universe is conspiring against you, and against all whom you love.” _

_ “Then how do I stop it?” Castiel said desperately. “For god’s sake, Balthazar,  _ **_tell me what to do_ ** _.” _

. . . 

His cell phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand, and Castiel reluctantly dragged himself from sleep, fumbling for it with one hand. He managed to knock over his alarm clock in the process, and by the time he was finally able to mutter a very aggravated “Hello?” whoever had called him was leaving a voicemail.

Castiel lay back against the pillows, his throat tight as he ached for Balthazar to be stretched out beside him. His husband’s scent was long gone from their sheets, but Castiel couldn’t help himself from reaching out to pull what used to be his pillow close to his face and inhaling, imagining that he could still smell Balthazar’s unique sandalwood and vanilla, a mixture of the body wash and aftershave he’d once used. Both bottles were still in Castiel’s bathroom, half empty, the way they’d been left the very last time Balthazar had showered before leaving for work.

Castiel’s eyes fell shut as memories assailed him of that last morning, the final time he would see his husband alive. If he had known, Castiel knew he would not have been so quick in his goodbye. He would have begged the other man for a few more minutes; one more kiss. But he had not done so, and his shift at the university had only been four hours in before he’d been sent for, where he learned the horrifying truth in the office of the campus police that Balthazar was dead. He vividly remembered the way he’d first denied it loudly, then, at their insistence, had screamed and collapsed in a chair, wracked by heaving sobs as he’d repeated the word “no” over and over.

It had been a nightmare, one that Castiel was yet to wake from. And speaking of nightmares, he thought wearily, his husband appearing in his dreams was enough to give him serious pause. He’d once scoffed at the idea that loved ones could send messages from beyond the grave, but it was quickly becoming apparent that it was not only possible, but was happening to him directly - and the more it occurred, the more Castiel found himself wondering what information his husband was trying to pass on to him.    
  


Castiel picked up his phone, ignoring the voicemail for the moment, and scrolled through his contacts, stopping on a name that was of particular significance: Rufus Turner. The elderly African American gentleman had a rough, tough, take-no-shit-nor-prisoners attitude, but had been dearly loved by Balthazar. The two had been friends for many years, since Balthazar was a teenager, and had been his husband’s best man at their wedding. It had taken some time for Rufus to warm up to Castiel, but once he did, all three were inseparable...until Balthazar was killed. For three years, there had been radio silence from the man.

On the first anniversary of Balthazar’s death, a drunk and miserable Castiel had tried in vain to reach Rufus, only to have the phone number announce that the party he was trying to reach was unavailable. Castiel had then called the phone company, and had been informed that “Mr. Turner” had his phone line deliberately disconnected three months prior and had left no forwarding number or address.

If there was one person that Castiel knew would understand what might be happening, it was Rufus. And he’d apparently vanished into thin air.

. . . 

It wasn’t until after he’d showered and let Mollie Jean out to play in the yard that Castiel checked his voicemail. He nearly choked on his swallow of raspberry tea when he heard the voice on the other end.

“I hope I’ve reached the right number, and I’m sorry if I haven’t...this is Dean Winchester from the dog park. I’m looking for Castiel Novak. We agreed to meet for coffee, and I was wondering if today was good, maybe around one o’clock, if you’re still interested. I’ll wait at the cafe across from the university.” There was a brief pause, and then a soft, “I’d really like to see you.”

The recording ended there, and Castiel leaned against the counter. He’d figured that Dean would probably call him first, but he’d absolutely not expected that the other man would sound so...well,  _ gentle  _ was the only word Castiel could find to use. It surprised him, and left him wondering about Dean’s trauma that he’d alluded to when they’d met. 

Immediately, Castiel chided himself. He had enough difficulties of his own, and couldn’t afford to deal with more than one emotional fire at a time.

If he was going to actually show up for coffee, Castiel thought, he’d better hurry. It was already twelve-fifteen. 

Walking into his bedroom, Castiel hesitated in front of the closet, wondering what to wear. Casual? Business casual? Strictly business? 

"Oh, stop it," he grumbled aloud. "It's  _ coffee _ , not a five star restaurant."

Roughly moving the rest of his clothes aside on their hangers, Castiel pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans and a black button down, dressing quickly before heading back to the kitchen to call Mollie Jean inside. She stared at him pitifully when he opened the door to her cage.

"I know, girl," Castiel said gently, "but I haven't taught you yet how  _ not _ to tear the house apart when I'm gone. Last time, you ate my lesson plan," he added ruefully, and gave the collie a soft tap on her hindquarters. "Go ahead, in you get."

She flopped down on her favorite blanket with a fierce huff, and Castiel couldn't help but chuckle.

"I promise I'll let you out later, honey. This isn't a punishment."

After one last glance around the house to make sure everything was in order, Castiel locked the front door, slid into his truck, and drove off to meet Dean, all the while wondering what Fate had in store for him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Chapter Six

Dean checked his watch for what seemed like the millionth time, wondering if Castiel was actually going to show up. He’d been nervous and shy during the voicemail he’d left, and was now wondering if he should have just stayed home and watched Netflix instead of risking that he’d get mowed down emotionally.

A navy blue Dodge Ram slowly eased to a stop outside the cafe, and Dean’s heart leapt into his throat when he noticed Castiel. The other man didn’t see Dean, even though he was sitting near the front window, and it afforded Dean time to stare at him unabashedly. 

It was obvious that Castiel kept in shape, if his broad, toned legs and the way he evenly filled out his shirt were any indication. He was tall, but not in an ungainly way, and he carried himself with confidence. Dean wondered if that was something he’d learned to do because of what had happened to him in life, or if it was a natural posture. 

The most appealing thing about Castiel that Dean was unable to look away from, though, were his bright blue eyes and his raven hair, which seemed to be in a perpetual state of bedhead (or post-sex, his mind supplied helpfully, an idea that Dean immediately squashed before that line of thinking went any further). 

“Would you like to take a picture? It might last longer.”

The low, gravelly voice, filled with amusement, made Dean jump, knocking his knee on the underside of the table in the process. He cursed inwardly, rubbing the sore spot as Castiel chuckled and sat across from him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, but it appeared that you were quite interested in watching me park my car.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, I, uh-”

Castiel laughed outright this time, and it brought a smile to Dean’s face to hear the sound. 

“Don’t worry,” Castiel assured him. “I’ve been ogled at more than once since-”

His expression clouded, and the playful banter quickly departed as Castiel looked down at the table, continuing quietly, “Since Balthazar died.”

Dean waited a moment until it seemed that Castiel had composed himself somewhat, and then asked in what he hoped was a move toward a lighter conversation, “I didn’t get coffee yet. What do you like?” He pulled out his wallet, making a shooing motion as Castiel started to object. “Please, it’s fine,” he said firmly. “Order whatever you want.”

Once Castiel had a lemon and ginger tea in front of him, and Dean was munching on a cheese danish that was accompanied by a large blonde medium roast, Castiel ventured, “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been...I mean, what was - what did…” 

Dean took pity on his fumbling. He took a swallow of his coffee, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “You’re wondering what happened that turned me into such a mess.”

Castiel cringed, but when he saw the slight smile on Dean’s lips, he relaxed a bit. “You could say that.”

Dean stared into his coffee, and the mood that had been turning brighter suddenly became dark again. “It’s...hard to discuss.” He seemed to struggle for a moment, and then spoke, slowly stirring his beverage before laying the spoon to the side.

“I’ve never been someone that falls in love easily,” he began. “A lot of people have told me that they’ve wondered if I even have a heart because of how closed off I am.”

Castiel flinched. The look on Dean’s face as he said the words was broken, and Castiel replied softly, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to experience such harsh words. They’re the farthest thing from reality.”   
  


Dean smiled at him sadly. “Thanks, but I’m beginning to wonder if there’s some truth to them.” He gripped the coffee cup so tightly that Castiel feared it might crack. 

“I did love someone, once, a long time ago,” he said quietly. “We had everything - we were bonded, body and soul. There was nothing I would have refused him, if he’d asked.”

Castiel found himself pulled in by the way Dean talked. There was something about the words that he couldn’t place; something that made him feel alive again in a way he hadn’t since his husband’s death. It was uncanny, and Castiel shifted in his seat, toying with the teabag in his cup.

“Of course, the one thing that he desperately needed was freedom of the soul, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t give him that.” Dean’s smile was bitter. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happened next.”   
  


Castiel looked down at the table, which was scarred with age. He felt terrible for even bringing up the subject. To lose his own husband by murder was bad enough, but to know that someone was drowning in a sea of self-loathing, unable to help them…

Dean threw back the rest of his coffee. “I know what you’re doing,” he said shortly. “I hate pity.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel apologized instantly. “I...I suppose I just don’t know what to say in the face of such heartbreak.”

Dean let out a mirthless chuckle. 

“Now you sound like my therapist.” At Castiel’s shocked look, he quickly backtracked. “Jesus, I - I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such an asshole.” He ran a hand over his face, which was covered by a thin shadow of stubble. “I haven’t discussed his death in this much detail since the last time I was on my shrink’s couch.”

After a moment, Castiel asked quietly, “What was his name?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“I was raised to believe that everyone deserves to be known, and your significant other is no exception. Names have power, and they give life. The best way to honor the one you loved is to speak that name.”

The other man’s throat worked for a moment before he replied, “Amias.”

Castiel felt his heart break further. The name meant “beloved” in Latin, and it was quite clear that Dean’s paramour had been just that. 

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel offered quietly, and Dean gave him a wry smile.

“How many times are you going to say that in the last ten minutes? I told you, I hate it when I’m pitied.”

“I’m not giving you my pity,” Castiel replied, and Dean stared hard at him as he continued. “I detest it just as much as you do, if not more. That was all anyone could offer me when Balthazar was killed, and it didn’t help. If anything, it made me want to join him.”   
  


The admission, a surprise even to Castiel himself, made Dean watch him closely. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” Castiel replied, and quickly put down the napkin he held as he realized he’d been twisting it over and over until it had started to shred. “There’s more to life than mourning. I’ll never truly move on, but I can keep Balthazar’s memory alive and honor him by choosing to make the best of what he gave me.” Tears filling his eyes, Castiel murmured, almost as an afterthought, “I still have his things. I can’t get rid of them, no matter how hard I try. My closet is still filled with all of his suits and ties, and I haven’t been able to empty his side of the nightstand or throw away any of his personal hygiene items. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that this is part of grieving, but I still feel like I’m losing my mind day by day.”

Dean let out a hoarse laugh, his green eyes a little damp. “I understand. Believe me, I do. Amias was...well, a giant pain in the ass, but I still can’t sell most of the old stuff he had around his house. A lot of it is probably an art collector’s wet dream, but what am I going to do with it? I’m never going to find it in me to trash it, because it’s part of who he was.” Dean sighed. “He loved books. There was one whole room in the apartment that was dedicated to them. That’s why, when I found out about the auction a few weeks ago at the museum, and that there’d be an ancient manuscript there for the bidding, I had to go. I didn’t manage to snag it, though; someone else did. The hall was too dark for me to see perfectly who the lucky winner was, but I sure as hell remember the price tag: twenty thousand and one dollars.” Dean shook his head. “I couldn’t do anything but just nod, force a smile, and leave before I screamed out of frustration.”

Castiel’s mouth was suddenly very dry, and he had to swallow twice before he was able to speak.

“That book wouldn’t have happened to be Greek in nature, would it?”

Dean frowned. “I think so. Why?”   
  


Castiel pushed away the remainder of his tea, feeling nauseous. “Because I’m the one that won it.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

The bell over the shop door rang loudly, announcing either a very impatient or very pissed off visitor. If it was whom the owner was expecting, he was betting pissed off. Sure enough, the tall and handsome creature who had his palms flat on the counter radiated a dark, violent energy.

“Please do get a handle on yourself, chap. The last time your fury got the better of you, half of the country experienced a three hour long blackout that I was left to try to solve.”

A string of furious, ancient Greek was interrupted by the warlock behind the counter. “Ah, ah, ah,” he  _ tsked _ . “You forget that I understand every word you’re saying. I wasn’t born yesterday...well, perhaps the better part of five hundred yesterdays, but that’s hardly the point.”

“ _ Kólos,” _ was the biting answer he received. “You’ve known from the very beginning who Castiel Novak is. How dare you withhold such information from me. I should flay you alive at this very moment, Crowley.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, turning to place a few items in jars on the nearest shelf. “I’m certain that would get your rocks off, but we’re talking about your reincarnated lover, darling. And you need my expertise in this area.”

The shop’s aura grew thick and menacing as the other being spoke.

“I do not  _ need  _ you. I employ your services as per our contract, and do not think I will hesitate to nullify them immediately should you continue to play games.”

For his part, Crowley didn’t seem the least bit afraid. Instead, he threw a withering look in his customer’s direction. 

“My, aren’t we impatient,” he grumbled. “I promised you that you would have your revenge, and so you shall.”

“It seems to me that your promises take far too long to fulfill.”

“I’ve got an entire shop to run, in addition to catering to the likes of stupid humans who think having their cards read and picking out ‘healing crystals’ for them is all I do,” Crowley replied in exasperation. “I’m supposing it wouldn’t go over well should I tell them I’m also under employment to a millenia-old Greek god, who is bent on having his own way or reducing the planet to ash!”

There was nothing but stony silence, and Crowley composed himself, meeting the god’s eyes. “You needn’t worry about things not going according to plan. I have every possible roadblock nixed.”

“I would hope that you do. Or it will be your essence I take as punishment.”

In the time it had taken Crowley to blink, he was alone again. “Of course,” Crowley muttered irritably, taking a cinnamon broom and beginning to cleanse the area where his visitor had been. 

“It’s up to  _ me  _ to make the big reveal to your lover. Couldn’t do it yourself, now, could you?”

The sweet scent of spices calmed him after a few ferocious drags across the wood floor, and Crowley replaced the broom against the wall just as a surge of energy nearly sent him crashing into the bookshelf nearest him. When he was able to right and center himself once more, his eyes widened at what his inner vision showed him.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

. . . 

“Mollie Jean, what are you barking at? Stop it right now!”

Castiel threw down his pen and rose from the kitchen table, where he’d been attempting to grade papers, and strode into his sunporch, where the collie had her nose to the screen door, her entire body shaking with anticipation.

“No,” Castiel said firmly. “I don’t care what you might see out there in the dark. It’s past nine, and I refuse to allow you to roam the yard unattended this late. If you have to go to the bathroom, use the training pads in your cage.”

  
She would not stop her frantic attempts to claw open the door, however, and Castiel huffed. 

“Fine. But I’ll be waiting. Be quick about it.”

The instant Castiel lifted the latch, Mollie Jean took off down the sharp incline at the side of the yard, something she had never done before. Uttering a particularly nasty swear under his breath, Castiel grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall and followed. 

There was no moon nor starlight, which made trying to see all the more difficult, especially since Castiel hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight. Cursing himself for his stupidity, Castiel tripped and stumbled over twigs and small fallen logs, all the while thinking about how badly Mollie Jean was going to be reprimanded for her impromptu excursion to gods-knew-where.

“Mollie! Mollie Jean! Come here right now!”

A chill breeze had picked up, and Castiel shivered as the dry, brittle leaves swirled around him. This was definitely not how he had imagined his evening would be going. He was becoming more irritated and cold with every passing second.

Something passed by in his line of vision, and Castiel froze. Nothing should be on his property. Balthazar had installed a silent security system, and it obviously hadn’t been tripped, or the police would have been there by now to check on things.

Mollie Jean was barking again somewhere down the hill, interspersed with loud growls. Castiel wished he’d thought to bring some type of weapon, even a frying pan at this stage. The collie sounded like she was a mixture of angry and very, very scared, and that frightened Castiel more than anything else ever had. She was his life, and if anything was to happen to her…

Pushing away that thought, Castiel slipped and slid his way further down the incline, and then suddenly heard a loud yelp. Then there was only silence.

His pulse pounding wildly in his throat, Castiel took one step forward and lost his footing, tumbling down the remainder of the incline. When he finally came to a stop, he realized that he’d landed in something wet and sticky. 

His breath coming in shaky exhales that hung in the air around him, Castiel turned to grab onto what he believed was a long piece of wood just beside him, but knew at once that something was very, very wrong. The “wood” was far too soft and wet, and....

As his eyes adjusted to the blackness, Mollie Jean’s heavily mutilated form could be seen laying in the loam and twigs, her eviscerated insides still steaming.

Castiel screamed.

  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Meg wound her car through the throngs of police that had surrounded Castiel’s house, thoroughly furious with the neighbors that were intent on playing detective and speculating what could possibly have caused such a disturbance. It had taken her almost half an hour to convince the bluecoats at the bottom of the hill that she wasn’t A) a reporter, B) a Nosy Nellie, or C) generally trying to make trouble. 

They’d finally let her through after thoroughly examining her information, and as she pulled up beside an animal control van, Meg frowned, her stomach sinking. She’d rushed over, thinking that Castiel himself was in trouble, but the lack of body bags was telling. What could have happened? 

At the same time as she thought the question, Meg realized that she probably wasn’t going to like the answers she received.

. . .

Castiel sat on the edge of the ambulance with his hands tucked around his middle. He couldn’t seem to get warm, no matter how many blankets were wrapped around him. He knew he was likely in shock; he’d seen the concerned glances of the paramedics and the way they talked in hushed tones when they thought he couldn’t hear or see them. A younger EMT had offered him an anti-anxiety medication, but Castiel had refused. He didn’t want his senses dulled, despite the things he had been through that night. He was determined to stay alert and on his toes - and he had vowed he would find out who was responsible for Mollie Jean’s death. 

A bald, portly man, who had identified himself as the animal coroner, had winced when he’d seen Mollie Jean’s mangled body, wondering aloud, “Who the hell would do this to a defenseless animal? It’s horrifying.”

Castiel didn’t bother to tell the man that when he discovered who had murdered his beautiful collie, “horrifying” wouldn’t be the word used to describe the way they would find the person responsible.

“Cas!”

Meg came flying through the crowd of people, launching herself at him in a tight hug. When he barely responded, she drew back and looked at him carefully.

“What’s going on? I thought you were…” She frowned as his glassy eyes focused on hers, a chill snaking down her spine. “Cas, where’s Mollie Jean?”   
  


At the name, Castiel said emotionlessly, “She’s dead.”

Meg rocked back on her heels, having to sit next to Castiel before she fell down in shock. For a moment, her mind simply whirled. Mollie was dead? Castiel’s beloved pet, the last true memory of Balthazar, was gone?

“What the fuck happened?” she whispered, watching K-9 units patrol the hillside below Castiel’s house.

“I let her out into the yard last night,” Castiel said numbly. “She was so anxious to be out of doors. I tried to stop her, but she went down the hill. When I followed her barking…” 

At last Castiel’s numbness shattered, and tears began to flow freely down his cheeks as he hugged himself tighter, beginning to rock back and forth. His voice was little more than a wail.

“I found her, Meg; oh god, I found her in her own blood - and she was - when I touched her, she’d been ripped open from throat to stomach...how could anyone  **do** this?”

Three nearby paramedics quickly took charge of the situation, half-dragging her hysterical friend into the ambulance and ushering her off its step, firmly shutting the back doors in her face. As soon as they did so, Meg leaned over to the side and threw up, barely missing her designer Uggs. She’d never particularly been a dog person, but regardless of her preferences, Mollie Jean had been all Castiel had left - and for someone to end her life so cruelly was beyond deranged.

“Do you need assistance, miss?”   
  


Meg shakily took the oversized gauze pad that the cop gave her, wiping her mouth. “No, I - I’m fine. It’s just…” She swallowed thickly, bile rising in her throat again at the sound of Castiel’s pain, rising over the din of sniffer dogs and voices throwing orders. “This is awful.”

The officer’s countenance was solemn. “I know. I’m sure you can imagine I’ve seen a lot of things in my time on the force - people can do nasty things to one another without giving a shit - but this is something I don’t know if the rookies can handle without some serious therapy. We’ve already had one put in the bus and tended to.”

Meg called out to him as he turned to walk away. “Hey.”

The officer looked over his shoulder, and Meg blurted, “You catch this son of a bitch, you hear me? That’s my friend back there in that ambulance, and that dog was all he had. I don’t care what you do, but you boys get him. And when you do, make sure he fries like an overbaked turkey.”

“Oh, he will, miss. I guarantee you that - whether it’s because of the chair, or one of us.”

. . . 

With Mollie Jean now gone, the house was far too quiet. Castiel had not slept the first night, unable to rest without her familiar furry form beside him, curled into his thigh on the bed. For a week afterward, he had cried each time morning came and she was not eagerly waiting by her food dishes, tail wagging happily. 

It had been nearly three months to the day since her death, and life was moving on as it had for thousands of years, without regard to suffering or joy. Spring had come in full, and the trees in Castiel’s backyard were a leafy green, their shade offering shelter and fruit. Sadly, the garden Balthazar had started, surrounded by trellises and adorned with whimsical gnomes, faeries, and a few other odds and ends, needed much loving care.

Castiel had stared at it year after year, knowing that it was a great disservice to his late husband not to keep it up, and there was also the matter of it becoming an eyesore. Finally, on his way home from the university one day, Castiel stopped at a local herbalist’s shop he’d not been at before, but knew Balthazar had frequented.

The smell of pungent spices and sweet flowers mixed in the air around Castiel, making him wrinkle his nose just as a shorter, bearded man rounded the corner, his arms filled with all sorts of flora and fauna that Castiel couldn’t identify. When he noticed Castiel’s frown, he spoke sharply in a British accent.

“By all means, if your snout is that sensitive, there’s the door, and good day. I haven’t the time for delicate-”

“I’m looking for gardening advice,” Castiel replied curtly, somewhat peeved by the other man’s rather dismissive attitude. “My husband began one, but it’s fallen into disarray, and I’m eager to repair the damage.”

The man dropped the armful of what he carried on the back counter and wiped his hands, turning to face Castiel with a forced smile.

“I suppose you’ll want step-by-step instructions?”

Now, Castiel felt himself bristle. “Excuse me?” he said, through clenched teeth. “I’m a grieving widower that wants to carry on his late husband’s love for the earth, not a fool.”

At that, the man’s eyes softened a bit. “Are you, now? Well, then, I do apologize for my attitude. I get quite a lot of people in here that seem to think I’m a miracle worker. But it isn’t an overnight process, and when they decide to discover that, I’ve already spent money from my own pocket and am left with flowers that will sit here in the back of my shop, wilt, and die, never seeing the proper light of day or feeling the warmth of the sun.” He paused, gently running a hand across a large leaf attached to a tall yellow stalk. “People can be quite stupid and careless. Loving things back to life takes time.”

Castiel found that he suddenly could not breathe. The words struck a chord deep within him that felt as though it had long been hidden, and he said breathlessly, “I get the feeling that you’re more than what you appear.”

A small smirk curved the other man’s lips upward.

“You aren’t wrong.” He held out a hand. “The name’s Crowley.”

The instant Castiel took that offered hand, he felt as though lightning had struck him, and he wobbled on his feet. His vision seemed to grow dark and narrow, and all he could see were what appeared to be swirls of mist. They cleared slightly to reveal a taller shape, one that even from this distance, Castiel could tell was filled with yearning and regret...and a terrible, bright rage.

With a choked gasp, Castiel wrenched his hand away, only to find Crowley staring at him with a shrewd gaze. 

“What-”

“This isn’t the first time something of that nature has occurred, but I will mention it’s been the only instance where it seems the other person has recognized the subject.” Crowley handed him a glass of water, directing him to a nearby stool.

Castiel drained the entire amount of liquid before he croaked out, “What the hell are you talking about?”   
  


“Hell; yes, that would be the appropriate term,” Crowley muttered, and only then did Castiel notice he had turned the shop’s sign to  _ Closed _ , returning to perch on another second stool nearby. “Your dearly departed was a warlock, darling. As am I.”

Castiel scoffed, though his hands were shaking. “You can’t honestly think I’m going to believe that.”

“No? And I suppose there were never any odd cooking experiments? No books from floor to ceiling detailing what you called ‘ridiculous hocus pocus’? No visitors that you simply couldn’t warm up to, no matter how hard you tried?” Crowley’s gaze was piercing, and Castiel felt his heart lurch in fear. 

The warlock gave a dry chuckle. “I’m not going to harm you. But there are others who can, and who will, if you don’t admit to what you are - and what you currently have in your kitchen.”

Castiel swallowed twice before he could answer, his mouth very dry. “You’re insane. And I’m leaving.”

“Go ahead,” Crowley replied calmly. “You won’t get far. The wards I’ve put up will keep you here for as long as I deem it necessary.”

“You’re telling me that Balthazar was - was part of some coven? And that I’m somehow involved with that wretched manuscript sitting on my counter?”

“Ah, so you do admit to owning the sacred text.”

“Sacred, my ass,” Castiel snapped. “It’s just a book.”

“That  _ book _ ,” Crowley growled, “is known as  _ To Encheirídio tou Diavólou,  _ the-”

“Devil’s Handbook,” Castiel finished numbly. He’d heard of it in small circles, but each person he’d come across had always thought it to be nothing more than rumor and tall tales. Was it possible he truly owned a copy? And if so, what did it mean?

As if he was reading his mind - and Castiel didn’t care to know if he was - Crowley said sharply, “Do you think you simply ‘won’ the book at the auction because of a stroke of luck? There are greater forces at work here, ones that you continue to deny at your own peril.”   
  


“So I’ll return home and burn the manuscript,” Castiel offered, and Crowley’s head tilted, his eyes focused on Castiel as if he was a canary about to be eaten by a cat.

“Burning The Devil’s Handbook will do you no good,” he replied, his voice low. “As a  _ polemistís ieréas _ , I would have thought you knew better.”

Castiel felt as though his legs would not support him on the stool, and he gripped the counter tightly.  _ Warrior priest _ ? 

As quickly as the thought had come, he wondered how he knew the term.

“I - I’m sorry, you have the wrong man. I’m just a professor at the local university.” Even as he said the words, Castiel felt a deep heaviness in his chest, one that let him know Crowley was not going to let him off that easily.

Sure enough, the warlock turned to retrieve a long, thin box from under the counter. It was beautifully carved, covered in sigils that Castiel had never seen before, and was certain he would never see again. Crowley lifted the lid, and Castiel’s breath failed him for the second time that day.

Inside the box, on a deep red cushion, lay a thin, curved sword. It was a cross between a sickle and a scimitar, the handle made of pure silver and decorated with yet more sigils. 

“You know what this is.” Crowley’s tone was not in the form of a question.

Castiel felt a wave of dizziness overcome him as he continued to stare at the weapon, and he murmured, “Yes.”

“Tell me its name.”

“ _ Harpē. _ ” Even as he said the unfamiliar word, it rolled off his tongue like honey, and Crowley shut the box again, replacing it under the counter and watching the other man carefully.

“You are from a long line of priests destined to keep an evil at bay, one that has been chained - figuratively and, sometimes, literally - for millennia. Should it escape, the world will go to hell, and that is no simple figure of speech.”

“Why haven’t the others.done their job to stuff it back into the Pandora’s Box it came from?” Castiel demanded.

Crowley’s words were chilling.

“They have. You’re the only one left alive to stop it.”

Castiel swallowed tightly. “I can’t stop something that doesn’t have a name.”

“Oh, it has a name,” Crowley said grimly. “Deimos. Or, as you know him, Dean Winchester.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

Meg sat on her couch, staring at her phone in worry as she absently chewed her lower lip.

She hadn’t heard from Castiel since he’d sent her a single text message -  _ I need to grieve, so please don’t try to contact me -  _ and despite the fact she knew how badly he was hurting, she needed to know if he had tried to do anything stupid. If her best friend had decided the planet would be better off without him, she was sure she would have heard in one way or another, but no one seemed to know anything - and Meg was quite persuasive when she wanted to be.

Understandably, the university had given Castiel a leave of absence. While Meg was grateful for their sympathy and support, the fact Castiel had simply seemed to have gone underground, with no intention of ever rising again, left her frightened and feeling lost.

Meg rose and padded to her liquor cabinet, pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and pouring herself another shot, knocking it back in one go. She’d never been one to drink the hard stuff, but under the circumstances, she thought it was permissible.

The phone in her hand trilled suddenly, and Meg nearly dropped everything she held. Cursing under her breath, she answered with a brisk, “Hello?”

“Meg, this is Amara Bradshaw. I was calling to inquire about our dear Castiel. Have you heard from him, by chance?”   
  


Meg ground her teeth. The other woman’s mannerisms had screamed ‘wrong’ at her since she’d met her at the auction that night, and Meg would be damned if she was going to let slip anything that might cause Castiel more pain.

“Actually, I haven’t,” Meg said, forcing herself to remember her manners. “He’s asked to be left alone, but out of concern, I was going to go over and check on him tomorrow.”

“Well, now that’s quite strange,” Amara mused. “He didn’t seem to be alone last night.”

Meg’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

There was static on the line for a moment, but then it cleared. “I happened to be at the local farmers’ market, and clear as day in front of me was Castiel. A rather dashing young fellow was with him, and they seemed quite...cozy.”

“What are you talking about?” Meg snapped, and Amara chuckled dryly.

“Tragedy has come and gone for that young man, my dear. If he chooses to find relief in the arms of another, that’s no concern of mine - or yours, for that matter.”

Meg might have been able to contain her wrath had Amara not spoken the last words, and she clutched the shot glass tightly, her voice filled with rage.

“Listen up, you little harlot. I’ve seen the way you’ve always looked at Cas, and I’ve never found you to be particularly appealing, either physically or mentally. So why don’t we cut this conversation short,  _ honey _ , and you tell me who Castiel was with?”

To her credit, Amara simply laughed, and the sound sent chills down Meg’s spine for reasons she couldn’t understand. 

“If you must know, his name is Dean Winchester, and I believe he’d be more than pleased to get to know you. His house is just down the road from the center of town.”

Before Meg could reply, there was a click.

. . .

“You don’t have to do this. I know that things are still hard for you.”

Castiel looked up from the journals he’d been mulling over at the local bookstore. “Do what?”

“I mean that you don’t have to keep seeing me,” Dean replied. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Castiel’s fingers paused on a plain brown journal, and Crowley’s words replayed in his head. If everything that the warlock had said was indeed true, it was likely not a good idea to let on that he knew “Dean” was an ancient Greek god bent on death and destruction.

“Look,” he said softly, “there’s no flaws when you’re pretending to be something you’re not. Without a mask, you can’t hide, and the lies overtake the truth.”

Dean watched him carefully. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Castiel smiled bitterly. “I suppose I am. And somehow I’ve become everyone’s fool - or maybe just my own.” He let out a derisive snort. “I always believed that Balthazar and I had a normal life; that we were just like everyone else. Recent events have led me to believe otherwise.”

Dean’s forest green gaze landed on his own blue one, and Castiel shivered involuntarily. If Dean noticed, he didn’t let on, instead saying quietly, “Everyone has something to hide, Castiel, some people more than others. But that doesn’t mean when we’re lost, we can’t share each others’ grief.”

Castiel looked down in surprise as Dean let his fingers slide across Castiel’s knuckles, wrapping around them and squeezing gently. When Castiel looked up again, a terrible grief was etched across Dean’s face, and the memory of the being he had seen in his vision at Crowley’s shop suddenly hit him like a freight train. He let out a noise somewhere between pain and fright, and Dean released him immediately.

“Castiel? What did I do?”

Shaking his head, Castiel backed away quickly, and then he was gone.

. . . 

“Crowley! Crowley, open up, damn it! I know you’re in there!”

The passersby on the street were giving Castiel rather alarmed looks as he pounded on the door of the shop, but he refused to cease. At last, the lock turned, and Crowley stood there in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, his expression like a thundercloud as he quite literally yanked Castiel in through the door and slammed it shut, pulling the blind over the window down.

“What the devil?” he exploded. “If there is a sign on my door that announces my store is closed, that is exactly what it means - and I don’t plan to open it even for half-mad Greek priests who obviously refuse to take no for an-”

When he caught a good look at Castiel’s face, however, he stopped mid-rant, immediately going to a tall cabinet near the back of the shop and withdrawing a bowl, matches, and a bag of crushed herbs, along with a jar of what Castiel hoped was not blood, but already knew it was. Crowley carelessly tossed things off a small side table to make room, and before Castiel could follow the proceedings, the warlock had mixed the ingredients in the bowl and lit the match, reciting in an ancient tongue that Castiel - though he knew not how - recognized.

“Show me the Tainted One.”

Crowley dropped the flame into the bowl. Castiel flinched as bright orange smoke escaped, curling into the air around them before forming into two figures. At once, he turned to Crowley.

“Amara? She’s my colleague at the university. And Meg? What’s going on?”

“Don’t be stupid. Amara Bradshaw is hardly human.”

“What are you-”

“Enyo, boy,” Crowley snapped. “She is the goddess of many things, but mainly conquest and bloodlust. She allows no one and nothing to stand in her way, and I’m afraid that Ms. Masters is no exception.”

Castiel was already out of his seat. “What does she want with Meg?”

Crowley gave him a hard stare. “If you can’t discover the answer, your friend will be dead within the hour.”

Without a word, Castiel threw open the door to the shop and raced out into the setting sun.

. . .    
  


“Castiel?”

Meg knocked on the door for the third time, trying to see through the front window. If her friend was home, he certainly wasn’t answering.

Looking around to make sure there were no neighbors that might see, Meg knelt down as if retrieving the mail, and tried to pick the lock with one of her hairpins. It didn’t work, of course, and she stood back up, frustrated and half-tempted to have the local police do a wellness check. But that would be something Castiel wouldn’t appreciate, and would see as a betrayal of their bond of trust despite the situation.

With a huff, Meg muttered to herself, “You couldn’t make this easy, could you, Clarence? Jesus, why didn’t you let me in when you needed me?”   
  


There was nothing else to be done, and Meg was about to leave when something told her to follow the path behind Castiel’s house - the very path that led to the hill Mollie Jean had been murdered on. 

Meg glanced at the sky. It was twilight, and she was tired. Besides those two factors, she didn’t relish traipsing into the same territory where an innocent, defenseless creature had been brutally slain. Still, she found her feet carrying her down said path, brushing waves of hanging ivy out of her face as she went. 

Chills ran down her spine as she saw the rise of the hill, but she swallowed hard and carried onward. Besides, it was now becoming too dark for her to turn back; dusk had fallen and obscured the steps she had taken to get where she was currently.There was no choice but to keep going.

As she stood uncertainly on the edge of the premises, looking down into a small ravine covered in wet leaves, splintered logs, and coffee-colored water that mixed with mud, the miniscule breeze that had been around throughout the day turned into a sharp, chilling wind. Meg shivered and wrapped her jean jacket tighter around herself. This whole “investigation” had been a crazy idea, and she was done being Nancy Drew. It was high past time she left.

“Well, now, aren’t you a persistent little thing.”

The voice came from her left, and Meg turned carefully in place. It was getting blacker by the moment, but she thought she saw Amara standing a few feet from her. 

“Do you always go around snooping for answers where there aren’t any?” Meg bit out. “This isn’t your property.”

“Nor is it yours, my dear - and it seems that you can’t take a hint.” Amara’s tone had become dark, and Meg’s hand clenched into a fist.

“I don’t know what your game is,” she snarled, “but if I were you, I’d get off my friend’s property before I kick your ass.  **I don’t like you** .”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual.” Amara’s voice was a hiss. “If not for you, my nephew would have been on the throne of this world already.”

Meg snorted. “Good lord, you need some serious mental help. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’d rather not carry on a conversation with a psychopath.” She found her car keys in her jacket pocket and held onto them tightly. “Now get out of my way so I can leave.”

“You are going nowhere.”

Meg gritted her teeth. “Lady, don’t think that just because you’re a prominent figure in this town means that I won’t fuck you up.  _ Move. _ ”

The wind began to gust, and Meg forced herself not to shudder, lest her coldness be mistaken for fear. Without saying another word, she took two steps forward. 

Amara spun Meg around, trapping her within the confines of her own jacket so that she was unable to defend herself. The sliver of light that remained outlined the edges of a dagger next to her cheek.

“This is my greatest possession,” Amara murmured, and Meg’s heart began to pound as she saw the extremely sharp tip. “It’s capable of cleanly slicing a man from throat to stomach before they can let out a single cry.”

Meg’s eyes widened, and then Amara’s menacing voice was in her ear. 

“Continue to interfere, and I will be certain to be both your judge and executioner.”

There was a particularly nasty gust of wind, and then Meg was alone, wondering what exactly Castiel had gotten himself into - and how safe that left her.

To both questions, it appeared the answer was more complicated and dangerous than she’d originally believed.

. . . 

Castiel peeled into the driveway, his heart in his throat, and barely let the truck turn off all the way before he was scrambling up the asphalt, praying to deities he no longer believed in that Meg was all right...that she was still alive.

“Meg? MEG!”

“Easy, Clarence, I’m still kicking.” Meg’s voice, heard from the direction of the porch swing, nearly sent Castiel to his knees in gratitude. Instead, he vaulted up the steps and nearly collided with the ridiculous white wicker table that Balthazar had insisted they buy at one point.

“Jesus, would you relax?” Meg said tiredly. “I don’t need a broken ankle on top of everything else today.”

It was only then that Castiel noticed her booted feet were on it, and he sank down into the space next to her. Now that it was plain she was all right, his earlier adrenaline high was starting to wear off. His entire body was trembling violently.

“Clarence, what’s going on?” Meg asked quietly, tears in her voice she would never admit to. “Mollie Jean dies, you start acting strangely and won’t tell me what’s wrong, and then I’m almost stabbed today…” Her eyes met his in the porch light, filled with fear, and Castiel drew a deep breath to steady himself, reaching out to take her hands.

“Meg, come inside. There’s some things you need to know.”

  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

On her third glass of Disaronno, Meg watched as Castiel placed the dish of rice and steaming Mongolian beef in front of her. 

“You actually expect me to do Chinese at a time like this?” she said, her eyes red from exhaustion. Castiel shook his head.

“No, but I’m not going to let you sit there and drink with nothing in your stomach, so start eating.”

Reluctantly, Meg stuck a forkful of food in her mouth. While she wasn’t looking, Castiel changed the liquor out for a cup of black coffee. Meg snorted.

“I saw that,” she muttered, but sipped from the cup anyway. Castiel noticed that her grip around the handle was tight. After a moment, she spoke.

“I know you told me we had some things to discuss, but I only have one thing to say.” Her gaze met his, fierce and forceful.

“You’re not who I think you are. And whatever that means, I know your answer is going to haunt me for a while.”

Castiel sat across the table from his friend, his blue gaze haunted as he spoke. 

“There’s a war going on, Meg.”

“A war?” She chuckled weakly. “Are we talking, like, Democratic and Republican shit, here? Because it’s pretty obvious that our country-”

“I mean gods and monsters, apparently. And the people that fight them.”

Meg stared at him for what seemed like forever, and then she let out a guffaw. 

“What? This is the stuff of fantasy fiction, Cas. You know that, right? There’s no way that any of what you’re telling me is real.”

When his expression didn’t change, Meg swallowed thickly, letting her fork drop into the Styrofoam container in front of her.

“That’s it,” she murmured weakly. “I’ve completely lost it. I’m probably in shock from that bitch trying to slice me up. I should have gone to a hospital hours ago.”

“Meg.” Castiel leaned forward. “I don’t fully know what’s going on either, but you’ve got to believe me. I’m...different.”

She scooted backwards slightly in the chair, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as if in response to some unknown energy. “Different how?”

“According to the flower shop owner down the road, I’m a priest.”

When she began to interrupt, he spoke over her. “He said I was supposed to stop this ancient evil, or whatever.”

“Clarence,” Meg implored, “this is crazy.  _ You  _ sound crazy.”

“I know, Meg, but this is what he said.”

She grabbed for the remainder of the Disaronno and downed it from the bottle itself before slamming it back on the table. “Who? Mr. Spock?”

A small smile curved Castiel’s lips upward. “Somehow I think he’d be very offended if you called him that to his face.”

Meg watched as Castiel texted back and forth with someone for a while. Her eyes were getting heavy, and as much as she wanted to just go to sleep, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to rest until she got some much-needed answers -  _ real _ answers.    
  


Before she realized what was happening, Castiel was guiding her to the sofa. She flailed weakly at him.

“ ‘M not gonna-”

“Sleep, Meg. I’ll wake you when Crowley gets here.”

_ Crowley? What the fuck kind of name was that?  _ “I’m not-”

Castiel had already covered her with a thick green throw, and before she knew it, Meg’s eyes had drifted closed.

. . .

“Well, isn’t it charming that you’ve brought your girlfriend into this!”

“Damn it, she isn’t my girlfriend-”

“Oh? Forgive me if I arrive to find her sleeping on your couch, with a bottle of liquor vanished, and think the obvious!”

Meg woke to the sounds of voices arguing heatedly, albeit quietly. She tossed the blanket off her body and groggily sat up. Judging from the small strip of pink and gold that gleamed across the wooden floors, it was still early.

“Can’t a girl get some shut eye around here?” she grumbled loudly, and immediately the argument stopped. Moments later, Castiel appeared in the living room doorway with an unfamiliar male in tow.

“How did you sleep?” Castiel asked, and Meg raised her eyebrows at them both.

“Great. At least until you two decided to start having a verbal sparring match at the asscrack of dawn.”

The man behind Castiel chuckled, and she glared at him. “You think losing sleep is funny?”

“Not at all, darling; I’m just surprised that Castiel neglected to mention you were such a spitfire.”

The British accent was something Meg hadn’t been expecting, and she smirked. “That voice of yours could be a turn-on if you aren’t careful, you know.”

Castiel rolled his eyes as Crowley eyed her. “I will say it’s worked for many centuries.”

“Can we please get back to business?” he muttered, heading back into the kitchen as Meg and Crowley followed. Meg sat at the island, and then suddenly turned to Crowley. 

“Wait. Did you say  _ centuries _ ? You’re only, like, forty years old!”

Crowley snickered and turned to Castiel. “Now that’s what I call a compliment.”

“Oh, for-” Castiel threw up his hands. “I asked you here to explain things, Crowley, not to hit on my best friend!”   
  


“Can I help it if she’s beautiful?”

At that, Meg actually flushed, and Castiel growled, “ _ Crowley.” _

Crowley shrugged lightly and perched on the bar stool next to Meg, his expression and tone gone from playful to serious.

“You seem to be a young woman capable of handling difficult things,” he began. “What did Castiel tell you last night?”

“Do you mean before or after Amara Bradshaw tried to slice and dice me?”

Crowley glanced at Castiel, and something in the look made Meg shift uncomfortably, crossing one leg over the other. “What?”

“You didn’t tell her the truth,” Crowley said, his tone flat, and Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think she would have believed me? As it was, I tried to explain everything else, to no avail.”

“Hello?” Meg snapped, waving her hands. “I’m right here, guys. Right here.”

Crowley sighed. “Yes, except your sight is veiled.”

“I can see just fucking fine.” Meg’s voice was harsh.

“Your spiritual sight, darling. You’re quite blind, as it were.” Crowley folded his arms lightly. “Do you know why Ms. Bradshaw attempted to make mincemeat out of you?”

“Because she’s a goddamn lunatic?” Meg spat, and Castiel begged, “Crowley, please don’t do this. She’ll freak out.”

Crowley met his gaze. “It has to be done. Or she will not survive the coming war.”   
  


Castiel’s eyes were tortured. “No, please-”

Without warning, Crowley reached out to place a hand on Meg’s sternum.

“Hey, hey, hey!” she yelped. “I’m not for sale, you perverted-”

In the next instant, she had collapsed in Crowley’s arms.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

Meg had come to shaking and with a terrible headache, but when the true nature of things had been explained to her by Crowley, she had accepted them - albeit reluctantly, and after much arguing.

Castiel watched her through the screen door as she sat staring into nothing, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. Crowley, who was leaning against the railing, said softly, “She’ll be all right.”

Castiel sighed heavily, turning away, and Crowley continued, “She’s strong. And she may be an asset to us.”

At that, Castiel whirled back around, his eyes flashing. “No, Crowley.”

“Castiel-”

“ _ No _ . My fight with this….this  _ thing _ is mine to deal with. I can’t drag Meg into it as well. I won’t.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t lose her, too.”

Crowley stared at him. “When are you going to let him go, Castiel? It’s been three years.”

His eyes damp with emotion, Castiel said hoarsely, “Never. Balthazar was my soulmate; my entire life. In dreams, I can still see him; touch him; speak to him. When I’m in the waking world, all that ends. I need to keep him alive.”

“Castiel, by refusing to let him go, you aren’t keeping him alive. You are trapping his soul in the void, with no way to be released. You  _ must  _ say goodbye. Properly. And never look back.”

“And if I don’t?”

The words weren’t a threat, but Crowley seemed to stand taller, the energy around him becoming slightly darker. 

“Then Deimos will use this against you. He’s had millenia to perfect the art of making others suffer.” Crowley glanced back into the kitchen. “Don’t make the ones you adore a casualty because of your pride.”

. . . 

Meg smiled awkwardly at Castiel as she stood on his porch the next morning, her car keys dangling loosely from her fingertips. 

“I feel like I should be addressing you as ‘Father’ or something,” she said, fidgeting. “This whole thing is...there’s a lot to take in. And it’s just plain fucking scary to think that some crazed Greek god is after you.”

Castiel didn’t mention that Meg was also in the path of Deimos’ violent tendencies, choosing instead to say gently, “I’m still me, Meg. Whatever happens - and I’m still not sure about everything myself - I’m still Castiel.” He reached out to squeeze her other hand. “And I will never let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you even if I have to die.”

Meg had started down the steps, but turned around at his words, her own chilling.

“Somehow, Clarence, I think you’re going to end up doing exactly that.”

Castiel watched her drive off, returning inside. His hands itched to do something, anything, to alleviate the anxiety he felt, and so he washed the last few days’ dishes, tidied up the kitchen and living room, and put in a load of laundry to wash. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up Mollie Jean’s soft, old blanket, folded it tenderly, and carefully placed it on the top shelf of his closet. He would make an altar to her later. The cage he could donate to the local animal shelter; gods knew they always had need of them.

It was late afternoon by the time Castiel could sit down, and he found himself in the living room, staring at Balthazar’s bookshelf wistfully. As much as he had once been annoyed by his husband’s lifestyle and reading choices, now he wished for nothing more than for Balthazar to sit with him and do just that: read. He would have given anything to be able to lean on Balthazar’s shoulder as he scrawled notes in the pages of his grimoires; to ask questions as his husband lovingly rolled his eyes at Castiel’s naїvety...to go back to the way things had once been.

With a sigh, Castiel reached over to turn on the table lamp. As he did so, his eyes fell on the one book he’d been desperately trying his best to avoid since its arrival in his home.

_ The Devil’s Handbook.  _ Castiel gingerly touched the cover, as though it would burn him on contact. He couldn’t keep himself from wondering whether the moniker of the tome was something that had been given to it, or whether there was another, more sinister name for the thing. Either way, Castiel knew that he had to study it. There was no other option to know exactly what he was up against.

. . . 

“You fool!”

Idly, Deimos tilted his face up to the sun from where he reclined against the chair in the bustling taverna. He spoke idly, eyes closed.

“Careful, Aunt. It wouldn’t do to risk everything we’ve gained over a bout of your anger.”

Enyo sat roughly in the seat opposite him, signalling the waitress for a pitcher of strong wine. Her expression was filled with rage as she looked at Deimos.

“You forget both your place and your destiny. This mortal is meant to die, not become your possession. You know who and what Castiel Novak is.”

Olive green eyes focused on her briefly as the wine arrived. “Your worry is noted.”

“Worry?” She snorted, pouring herself a cup. “Hardly. I am not made for concern, dearest nephew. There is a reason why I am worshipped still to this day in certain circles.” She sipped from the stoneware, her dark brown eyes fixed on his face. 

“Castiel is still accepting who and what he is, but when he fully embraces it, we are in grave danger. He will not stop until-”

“You need not concern yourself with such matters. I have loyalty in places one would not expect.” Deimos signaled the waiter again, appearing to order food in his native tongue. However, instead of returning to the kitchen, the girl slipped a small sachet of herbs and spices into his hand, bowing lightly before weaving her way back through the lunchtime crowd.

Enyo watched him carefully, but she did not ask what the girl had done. For this, at least, she could trust that her nephew knew what was at stake, and had formulated a plan. 

Seeming to read her mind, Deimos’ lips curled up in a barely-there smile.

“Release your fears, dear Aunt. I have not been worshipped as the god of terror for centuries only to become a dog with no bite.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Castiel sat cross-legged on the living room floor amidst scrawled sticky pads, a pile of Balthazar’s grimoires, and a binder filled with neatly written notes of his own. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he knew that he could not rest until he found the answers he needed.

Wearily, once more, he picked up Balthazar’s  _ Rune Magicks.  _ He’d scoured its well-worn pages, marginalized notes, and highlighted passages for hours, but had found nothing that seemed to help, but perhaps a last once-over wouldn’t hurt.

Gently flipping the dog-eared pages, Castiel was about to put it down when he read something that made his heart nearly stop.    
  


_ The rune Peorth may be read as Initiation - into a different way of thinking and being. It is closely associated with the mystical Phoenix, whose secret, hidden ways are sought but rarely found. It may also represent a death of some sort - the letting go of that which no longer serves one, perhaps - divination, and magickal luck.  _

_ Do not be deceived: the rite of Initiation is not for the faint of heart. Should you choose, like the Phoenix, to rise from your ashes, know that the creature you become will never be the same. When leaving your old self, the claim that is taken as payment is often a taste of divinity and knowledge not many can swallow. Proceed carefully.  _

With trembling hands, Castiel picked up  _ The Devil’s Handbook  _ and scanned through its pages until he reached the section he had been looking for. He hurriedly grabbed for the glass of whiskey on the side table that he had poured hours ago and downed the rest in one gulp, massaging his left temple in anguish.

The passage in the auctioned book, and the words he had just read in Balthazar’s book, were almost exactly the same. Could it be that his murdered husband had known something - something that would forever change the course of both of their lives? Was such a thing what had caused his death?

Sinking back against the bottom of the couch, Castiel felt tears prick the corners of his eyelids. Now, more than ever, he needed someone to keep him from drowning. 

His cell phone trilling made him jump, and he answered without a second thought. 

“Hello?”

“You’ll want to turn on the news, darling.” Castiel recognized Crowley’s voice at once, and immediately responded sharply, “That’s something that I’m not willing to do right now.”

“Believe me, whether you’re willing or not, you need to see this.” There was a pause, and then Crowley said softly, “I’m a warlock, Castiel, not a fool. I know what you’ve been doing with those books. It’s obvious you’d rather not, but I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on this.”   
  


Before Castiel could reply, there was a click, and Castiel stared in consternation at the phone in his hand. He didn’t know what to make of the creature, but his gut told him to do as Crowley had said.

It was just beginning to get light, which meant that, one, Castiel had been up all night again, and two, the early morning news would be viewable that Crowley was demanding he watch. 

With a sigh, Castiel flipped on his usual news channel. For some moments, it was yawn-inducing items such as the state of the stock market, the president’s new initiatives, and the weather, until the anchors’ faces turned serious.

“New this morning,” a brunette said, “we have a breaking news story from the town of Mercy Falls, which we will warn you is quite graphic.”

Castiel’s exhaustion was suddenly gone as he sat upright and leaned forward, listening with growing horror as the picture switched to a live shot of the woods just off the center of his town, where a tall older anchor was speaking, gesturing behind himself.

“Good morning, Toni, although for the residents of this town, today is a somber and likely frightening day. Early last evening, two teenagers on a walk discovered the body of a young male in these woods behind me. While I’ll spare you most of the disturbing details, I can tell you that the body appeared to have been sacrificed in some sort of Satanic or otherwise wicked ritual. The coroner and police are on the scene as we speak, and I was able to get a statement from the chief of the police earlier.”

The scene switched to the police chief, but Castiel could not focus on what he was saying. His stomach was rolling, and his reality had become small and narrow, the nightmares and monsters he had spent his entire life trying to escape since his husband’s death suddenly directly in front of his face. He wanted to scream, but his throat was dry. 

With shaking hands, he grabbed for the phone and dialed Crowley’s number. The warlock picked up on the first half-ring, and Castiel did not give him a chance to speak before spitting out the words.

“You knew. You knew about this, and you didn’t tell me, you son of a bitch.”

“What would you have liked me to do?” Crowley answered softly, and Castiel yelled, “This is the exact same way Balthazar was murdered, Crowley! Everything is a replica of his death, right down to the sacrificial way the body was found!” Castiel ran a hand through his hair. “What the  **fuck** is happening?”

“You know what’s happening,” Crowley responded, his tone now sharp. “Deimos’ reign of terror has begun.”

“What?!” Castiel was up and pacing by this point. “So everything you said - I am a priest destined to stop an ancient Greek god from destroying the world. You weren’t lying!”

Crowley’s voice was soft. “No.”

“I have no tools to do this, Crowley! I’m just a man, trying to stop an immortal from wrecking everything I know and love! What do I do?”

“That is for you to discover on your own,” Crowley replied, and something in his voice made Castiel listen closer. “I can no longer help you, Castiel. My assistance ends here.”

“Crowley-”

But the line had gone dead, and Castiel walked over to the large bay window, watching the sun slowly creep over the horizon. 

_ Please,  _ he thought desperately.  _ If there’s anyone listening, tell me what to do. _

The heavens, however, remained silent.

. . . 

Crowley laughed through a mouthful of blood as Deimos stared at him, his green eyes filled with hatred as he crushed the burner phone beneath his heel.

“What exactly is your plan? Killing me won’t serve your purpose.” 

“You promised me my revenge,” Deimos growled. “Now I shall have mine. You have lied to me and befriended the one I desire to rid the earth of most.”

Crowley twisted in agony as the god made another cut in his chest, hissing, “Tell me, warlock, what is your tolerance for pain?”


	13. Chapter 13

_ “Cassie.” _

Castiel slowly dragged his eyes open, wincing at the bright sunlight that spilled across the room. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, or when he’d fallen asleep, but the voice was unmistakable.

“Balthazar.”

His dead husband’s eyes were locked onto his own. He held out a hand.

_ “Come with me, darling. It’s time we said goodbye.” _

Fear and loss threatened to choke Castiel as he spoke, his voice small. “I don’t want to.”

Balthazar’s smile was sad. “ _ I’m afraid you have no choice, love. You can’t fight this battle while still holding onto me.” _

Tears filled Castiel’s eyes. “Don’t make me do this. Please.”

His husband didn’t reply, and Castiel swallowed hard, following Balthazar as he led Castiel outside and down a familiar route through the town, passing homes where the residents inside were blissfully unaware of the oncoming storm Deimos would bring. 

At last, they reached the local cemetery, and Castiel began to weep in earnest as he saw the large headstone they stood in front of, the inscription carved into the marble in elegant lettering.

_ Balthazar Roche _

_ 1977 - 2017 _

_ Devoted husband and friend _

_ “Twilight and evening bell,  _

_ And after that the dark! _

_ And may there be no sadness of farewell, _

_ When I embark.” _

“I lost you so fast,” Castiel whispered, knowing that Balthazar was listening. “I thought that we’d have more time than we did. There was so much I wanted to say.” His shoulders shook. “I’m so sorry.”

Balthazar’s hand upon his shoulder was a comfort, but somehow Castiel knew that it was likely the last time he would feel his husband’s touch. 

“ _ None of this was your fault, Cassie. You’ve blamed yourself for years, when there was nothing you could have done. It was my choice to take that walk that night, and to venture exactly where I should have fled from. Even a warlock isn’t immune to human stupidity - or death.” _

Castiel stared at the headstone. “What are you saying?” he asked.

_ “I’m telling you to forgive yourself. If you don’t, Deimos will exploit your pain and fear until he has you in the palm of his hand. And if that happens, everything will be lost.” _

“I have to let you go,” Castiel whispered, and Balthazar’s fingers caressed his cheek. 

_ “Darling, three years is too long to carry such a burden - especially when it was never yours to shoulder.” _

“I love you,” Castiel whispered brokenly, and Balthazar’s lips gently passed over his. 

_ “I know, Cassie. But it’s time.” _

Castiel stared into his husband’s eyes, which were filled with nothing but kindness and a fierce love.

“I will never forget you.” Swallowing thickly, he whispered, “I release you from this mortal plane. Go.”

There was a soft breeze, and when Castiel looked around again, he was alone, save for a golden band that lay in the soil at the base of the headstone. It was Balthazar’s wedding ring, and reverently, Castiel picked it up, placing it on the first finger of his right hand. It fit perfectly.

Staring up into the trees above him, Castiel drew a shaky breath. Letting his husband depart this world was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he didn’t regret it. All of his attention needed to be focused on Deimos now, and hanging onto Balthazar’s memory would have served no purpose but to fuel the god’s fire.

It was over, and now, he had to prepare for whatever would come.

. . . 

Barely alert, Crowley watched as Deimos wiped down his blade, stained bright red with the warlock’s blood.

“Why all this fuss?” he croaked. “You know that the priest will never give in to you, and I certainly don’t plan on negotiating.”

Deimos looked at him, and something in his expression made Crowley struggle to sit up.

“This was never about me,” he breathed raggedly.

“If it were profitable, I would torture you for eternity, but there are much larger issues at stake,” Deimos replied calmly, and Crowley managed a smirk, even as Deimos’ eyes narrowed to slits at the warlock’s sudden cockiness.

“You have no idea where Castiel currently is,” Crowley said, in a throaty, pain-filled chuckle. “Balthazar’s last act before departing for the Veil permanently was to hide him from your sight. What’s worse, you know about the Seer, and you can’t find him, either.” He met Deimos’ eyes.

“For an ancient god with power immeasurable, you’re no better than a beginner’s mage.”

Deimos’ expression was unreadable. “Perhaps you speak the truth.”

Crowley let out a choked noise as Deimos’ blade slid through his heart, and the god leaned down to the warlock’s ear as Crowley drew his last breath.

“Or perhaps,” he murmured, “I know exactly what I am doing.”


	14. Chapter 14

Rufus rustled through the cabinets, shoving things aside in his search. When he didn’t find what he desired, he growled out, “Fuck me running,” and slammed the doors shut. It simply wasn’t possible that he was out of Jack Daniels already.

Sighing deeply as he looked at the rain beating against his windows, Rufus muttered, “Be damned if I’m gonna go shoppin’ in this shit,” and opened the large drawer beside the sink. A wide grin split his weathered face.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he crowed, as he held up a large bottle of Jameson. 

He was just about to retrieve a glass when his phone rang, and Rufus’ head whipped around like it was on a string as he stared at it, fear in his eyes. In the three years he’d been living out of sight, that landline had not rung once. For it to do so now meant that someone - or gods forbid, something - had caught on to him.

The phone shrieked for the fourth time, and with a trembling hand, Rufus grabbed for it, placing the receiver to his ear.

“No one’s got this number, so if you’re plannin’ on comin’ to get me, you better be ready for one hell of a fight, you mother-”

“Rufus, thank God. It’s Castiel Novak.”

“You think that’s gonna work? I told you, I ain’t-”

“Would you just shut the hell up and listen, Rufus?” the voice on the other end barked. “I have a copy of The Devil’s Handbook, a history of warrior priesthood that I’m completely in the dark about, and an ancient Greek god hot on my heels. I need your help.”

At that, the grizzled old man’s legs gave out, and he sank into his easy chair. 

“Castiel? It’s really you? Been damn near forever since we last talked. How’d you reach me?”   
  


“If I told you that, Rufus, things would be worse than they already are.” Castiel’s voice was trembling. “I know you hid for a reason, but right now, you may be the only one that can save my life - if not my soul. Please.”

Rufus listened to the rain banging off his tin roof for a moment. If the boy was telling the truth - and Rufus had a hard time believing he would lie about something like this - the whole world was going to go to hell in a handbasket, and in a hurry. He’d turned his back on those that needed him most once before, and the results had been nothing but persecution and death. Perhaps this was the universe giving him a second chance to make things right.

Rufus sighed. “You got pen and paper?”

. . .

Castiel stared at his GPS, completely confused. It had led him to drive two hours from Mercy Falls through a series of dizzying twists and turns and what seemed like a hundred different exits, and now it had told him he had arrived. The only problem was, he’d “arrived” in the middle of a clearing in a wooded area, without a single building in sight. Had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? 

Turning off his truck, Castiel reached over to pop open his glove box and look for an actual reliable map, when there was a loud rapping on his driver’s side. With a yelp, Castiel turned wildly, his heart racing. 

Rufus Turner stood at his door, gesturing quickly, and Castiel rolled down the window. 

“You gonna sit there wondering where you are, or you gonna get out and follow me?” The elderly man’s voice was rough - almost afraid, Castiel thought. 

“Rufus, what’s going on? Why am I in the middle of nowhere?”

Rufus glanced around, swallowing hard. “Would you just do what the hell I tell you?” he said sharply. “We ain’t got time for no conversations.”

Castiel peered at him. “Rufus-”

“Get the fuck outta the goddamn truck and start walkin’ before I make you sorry you came,” Rufus hissed.

Frowning, Castiel did as he was told. Something was very wrong here. As much as Rufus was a crotchety old gentleman, he’d never spoken to Castiel in such harsh terms. As he followed the other man over a path that had been well-trod at one time, but was now hidden by weeds and branches, the sudden drop in the air temperature made Castiel shiver and pull up the collar of his jacket. 

Castiel reflected that there had been too many times he had felt such cold, and each time it had not bode well. 

“Rufus, how much farther do we have to go?” he asked. His teeth were beginning to chatter, and his bones ached as though he were many years older than his current age. 

Rufus glanced back at him, his dark eyes filled with worry. “Just keep movin’.”

Castiel could not tell how much longer they walked, until finally he saw a small wood cabin with white smoke curling from the chimney. Rufus strode across the remaining few feet and hurried up the porch steps. 

“Get your ass in here,” he growled, motioning with his arm rather frantically.

Castiel crossed the expanse of land, and as soon as he had stepped over the threshold, Rufus had slammed and locked the door with a finality that made Castiel jump.

“Jesus, Rufus,” he snapped. “You’re acting like the hounds of hell are after you. What’s going on?”

Rufus’ hands were trembling as he spoke. “That ain’t too far from the truth.” 

Castiel stared hard at the other man. He had not seen him for years, but in that timeframe, Rufus seemed to have aged beyond measure. He was not the smiling, quick-witted friend Castiel had once known. Now, he was quite clearly terrified.

“What’s going on?” Castiel repeated, quieter this time, as Rufus leaned against the counter, his palms flat on the rough wood. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

To Castiel’s surprise, tears stood in Rufus’ eyes when he turned around. “I fucked up, bad. What you’re about to experience is all my fault.”

“What’s your fault?”

Castiel reached out to steady Rufus as he pushed away from the counter, but Rufus swatted his hands away, dragging himself to his chair and falling heavily into it. 

“Your ma and daddy, boy. They trusted me, and I…” Roughly, Rufus wiped at his eyes with the back of one fist. “I was supposed to protect ‘em. I failed, and they died knowing that my gift had become their ending curse.”

Castiel’s breath left him in a rush. He’d known little to nothing about his family, except that they’d died violently when he was but a young child. He’d been raised in three different foster homes until Rufus took him under his wing when Castiel was eighteen.

“My parents?” he whispered. “What do you mean?”   
  


Rufus looked at him through troubled, shining eyes. “I ain’t no normal old man, Castiel. Your parents were never meant to die. I saw what was gonna happen, and I couldn’t stop it.” Rufus swallowed hard.

“It wasn’t jus’ a car wreck that stole their lives,” he choked out. “It was an evil worse than what any man can dream up. I saw it comin’, and by the time I’d figured out what to do, word came that they were dead and you were an orphan.” He drew a shuddering breath. 

“I’m a Seer. Had the gift since god knows when - probably too long now - but whatever the future holds, I’m bound by oath to tell it. Problem was, I was too scared back then to admit it. My fear tore things apart, and left you clueless as to what you are and how to fight back.”

Castiel’s heart was pounding. Half of him wanted to pick up the phone and dial for mental health services for Rufus, but there was truth in the old man’s broken gaze that he couldn’t deny. 

Castiel sat carefully on the worn couch. “Tell me everything you know, Rufus,” he demanded quietly. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“Castiel-”

“My parents were killed because of your refusal to accept and tell the truth,” Castiel stated flatly, ignoring Rufus’ flinch. “If you really want to help me as you’ve claimed, then  _ tell me what you know.” _

Rufus’ throat worked, but he simply replied, “Where do you wanna start?”

  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

“You’ve lost the priest?”

Deimos sighed at the goddess’ shriek. “I have not  _ lost  _ him. He is simply hidden from my sight. It is an easy matter to correct.”

“Is it?” Enyo’s second shriek cracked a nearby wine glass. “If you cannot find him within the next moon-”

“Do you think me a fool?” Deimos spat, his fist clenching upon the marble tabletop in her kitchen. “I understand quite well our fates should he come into his own.”

“I assume you have a plan, then?” Enyo snapped. “Or need I remind you of the days when we were vanquished and relegated to nothing more than myth? They are not so far behind us, unless you cease your lovestruck pining and do something _.” _

“ _ Lovestruck pining _ ?” Deimos’ gaze flashed in fury. “How dare you assume-”

“Oh, please,” Enyo snorted. “There are hungers far stronger than the wind and tides, and I can plainly see that your desire for him grows by the hour.”

Neither spoke for a moment, until Deimos said softly, almost dangerously, “Castiel Novak knows nothing of his past or his fate. I seek to turn him to our side. That is all.”

Enyo’s gaze was piercing. “And I’m to believe that Amias does not factor into your plans?”

At once, Deimos’ eyes turned to a fiery lavender. “If you value your tongue, do not bring him into this.”

When Enyo spoke again, her tone was gentler as she placed a hand on one of his.

“It cost you nearly everything at one time, nephew. I only ask that you do not make the same mistake again.”

. . . 

When Castiel woke, Rufus lay sprawled asleep in his chair, four glasses and an empty bottle of Jameson scattered around his feet. 

Castiel rubbed at his eyes, which were dry and sore. From the position of the sun in the sky, Castiel guessed that the day was half over. The two men had likely slept for over twelve hours.

Pulling himself to his feet, Castiel retrieved the glasses and the bottle, placing them in the small sink, and then steadied himself against the porcelain edge. Rufus had indeed told him everything he wanted to know, and now…

“You wish I hadn’t told you shit.”

Rufus’ voice behind him made Castiel hunch his shoulders in sorrow and anger. “They trusted you. You were their friend - or at least, that’s how it appeared. You broke their trust, and they died because of you.”

“Castiel.” Rufus' voice was steady. “I know you’re pissed at me, boy, and you got every right to be. But make sure you understand somethin’ - I never wanted any of this to happen. If I could go back and die in their place, I would.” Rufus caught Castiel by the shoulders and forcefully turned him around to face the older man. “You hearin’ me?”

Castiel stared at Rufus’ face, marked by scars and time, and whispered, “I know.”

A shadow suddenly passed by the window, and Rufus hissed, “Get down!” 

Castiel turned to look, but Rufus had already shoved him into the overstuffed chair, gritting, “Stay there.”

Castiel watched in alarm as Rufus pulled his shotgun off the shelf and cocked it, aiming it at the door. Castiel watched as the minutes passed by without a sound, his friend’s gun ready for whatever was waiting outside. The small cabin had become a prison of fear, so thick that Castiel could taste it.

“Rufus,” Castiel whispered. “What’s out there?”

“Don’t know,” Rufus whispered back, “but whatever it is, it ain’t meant to be here.”

_ You may run, but you cannot hide from me, Castiel.  _

The thought entered his head and left as quickly as it had come, and Castiel’s heart stood still. The voice was familiar, and Castiel rose from his seat.

“Didn’t I say to get down?!” Rufus snarled.

“Rufus, get out of the way,” Castiel implored, and his friend’s head turned to look at him.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about? I ain’t movin’ until I know we aren’t gonna be slaughtered like pigs on a farm.”

“Please,” Castiel begged. “Just move!”

Rufus opened his mouth to speak, but the cabin door had flown open before he could, and Castiel let out a horrified cry as something unseen grabbed Rufus by the throat, tossing him into the dusk outside as though he were a child. The shotgun thudded to the floor, and without thinking, Castiel picked it up and aimed, his hands trembling.

In the next instant, a cloaked figure had stepped over the threshold, and Castiel fired.

There was nothing but silence for a moment, until a deep, rich voice was heard, heavy with irritation.

“Foolish priest. Did you honestly believe bullets would work?”

Hands reached up to remove the hood of the cloak, and Castiel found himself staring into green eyes flecked with lavender.

“Now,” Deimos said firmly, “we shall speak.”

  
. . .

The god watched as Castiel stumbled back, his eyes flicking to the cabin door. “What did you do with Rufus? Is he - did you-”

“Kill him?” Deimos finished. “Why should it matter to you if his soul has departed for the next plane?”

Castiel grabbed a nearby cleaver’s knife off the kitchen table, and when Deimos approached, sliced through the cloak to flesh.

Deimos chuckled, though his eyes were dangerous as he pulled his hand away from his shoulder, fingers wet with blood. “I see that your power is emerging. Such a weapon would not harm me in the hand of another.”

Castiel raised the knife in front of him like a barrier as he spat, “Come any closer, and you’ll find out just how much _ power _ I have.”

Deimos’ gaze was filled with regret. “I apologize for what I am about to do,” he said quietly, “but it has been foretold for millenia.”

A fierce wind had picked up outside, and Castiel spun around as a nearby window creaked ominously. During the moment he was inattentive to whatever the god was doing, Deimos had pulled him forward into his arms. 

“Get off me!” Castiel pounded ineffectively at Deimos’ chest as he was dragged toward a grove of trees, the loam and twigs seeming to make a path before them. “You murdered Mollie Jean and Rufus! You monster! I’ll fucking gut you for this, you miserable-”

“Silence, priest. I will hear no more of your accusations.”

All the air left Castiel’s lungs in a painful rush when he hit the ground unexpectedly as Deimos let him go, and without a second’s thought, Castiel scrambled to his feet and ran.

  
  



	16. Chapter 16

Even as he fled, Castiel knew it was no use. Deimos was close behind, and the forest was making strange noises - sounds no wooded area should ever make. Still, he forced his legs to move faster, ignoring the way he could barely breathe from exhaustion. There was a road ahead; Castiel remembered it from when he had initially driven into the woods. If he could only reach it, perhaps then he would be safe.

Gasping for air, Castiel leapt over a fallen log - and ran straight into Deimos’ arms.

The god held Castiel tightly as he struggled, and then, to Castiel’s shock, bent his head to lay his lips upon Castiel’s own. 

For a moment, Castiel’s knees grew weak. It was as though he had found his match….no, not his match. 

_ His mate. _

At the thought, Castiel shoved Deimos away, shaking and furious. “Don’t try your magick on me, you piece of shit,” he spat. “I may not know everything about who I am, but I do know that I need to stay as far away from you as possible.” He drew a breath.

Deimos’ eyes appeared saddened, which surprised Castiel - but not as much as his words did.

“You believe that my kiss was only intended to lure you away from your chosen path, and nothing more?”

Castiel forced himself to stare into Deimos’ lavender gaze. Swallowing hard, he asked, “What am I to you?”

But Deimos had inexplicably, suddenly vanished, leaving Castiel cold and alone in the night.

. . .

Meg’s expression was blank as Castiel finished talking. Emotionlessly, she asked, “Is Rufus going to make it?”

Castiel swallowed the last of his beer, holding the bottle tightly. “The doctors say that his windpipe was nearly crushed, and he’s lucky to be alive. He’ll be in intensive care for a while still.”

Meg’s gaze was far away as she replied, “That’s good.” Her tone was still flat, and Castiel reached out to take her hands. They were chilled, he noted, and he said softly, “Meg, look at me.”

When she did not respond, he tilted her chin up. Meg’s eyes were glassy as she spoke.

“This is real, isn’t it, Clarence? Gods, monsters, magick, all of it.”

“Yes,” he replied, and squeezed her fingertips. “But I promised you I would protect you even if I had to die, Meg, and I meant that. Deimos won’t touch you.”

“He got Mollie Jean, and almost paralyzed Rufus. And who knows where Crowley is.” Now, Meg’s eyes were filled with tears. “Deimos’ deranged aunt is still out there, and she’s made it clear she’d like to fillet me like a fish. You can’t make promises you aren’t sure you can keep.”

Castiel held her hands tighter. “We’ve known each other for a long time, Meg. I can’t think of a time when you haven’t been there for me. I swear by everything holy that I will be there for you. You’re going to survive this. I refuse to allow any other option.”

Meg stared at him, tears falling down her face. “What is holy, Castiel? Does it matter anymore?”

For that question, Castiel had no answer.

. . . 

Deimos leaned against the counter of Crowley’s shop, staring at the chair where the warlock had drawn his last breath. Blood still dripped from the wood, and Deimos ground his teeth at the memory of Crowley’s last words. 

_ “Castiel knows, Deimos. He has been awakened from the slumber of memory, and soon it will be your undoing.” _

The statement was likely that of a creature who knew his time was up, but Deimos felt something shift in the air that night. It was as if a spell had been broken, the walls of the invisible plane crumbling into nothing.

It was as though, Deimos reflected quietly, Amias had returned, intent on completing his duty from millennia earlier. And should the priest realize the truth of the matter, things would truly go to hell.

. . . 

Castiel crept into the living room, where Meg lay sound asleep, plied into unconsciousness by four glasses of wine. For a moment, he stared at her, his heart breaking. He knew that if this were to ever end, he needed to go to Crowley’s shop. If he was correct, the warlock had kept the  _ harpē  _ safe. 

Castiel was far past the point where he was willing to continue denying the existence of his past life. Something had happened between him and Deimos long ago, and to protect the ones he cared for the most, he needed to finish what had been started.

Quietly removing his car keys from the hook by the door, Castiel shut the front door and stepped outside. It was just barely dawn, the stars bright on the horizon. The air was still and cool, almost as though all creation had paused for what was to come.

Castiel knew they waited for either death or life, and he intended to give them his answer.

. . . 

The streets of the town were silent, only a few cars passing by at this time of the morning. Castiel made it to Crowley’s shop in under ten minutes, and pulled the truck in front, turning off the engine. What he was about to do was nothing short of suicide, but no one would ever be able to call Castiel Novak a coward. 

He knew that Deimos was inside. He could feel the god’s power calling to his own, and for just a moment, he wavered, wondering what would become of Meg and Rufus - of the world - should he perish. But he could not afford to dwell on such things; it would only distract him from his purpose. 

Castiel strode forward. The door swung open of its own accord before he reached it, and Deimos’ voice could be heard inside the shop, quiet and low. 

“I believe we’ve both waited far too long for this moment, priest. Let us not continue to put it off.”

Drawing a breath, Castiel entered.

. . . 

Deimos’ lavender gaze was fixed on Castiel, even as the door closed without a second glance from the god. There were emotions there that Castiel could not name, and rather than try to deduce them, he said sharply, “You know why I’m here.”

Deimos reached down beside him and picked up the  _ harpē. _

“A warrior of their god is consecrated to pursue their sacred duty.” Deimos held the weapon out, hilt first, to Castiel. “So do as you must.”

Castiel took the  _ harpē  _ in hand. It was as light as a feather, and as soon as his fingers closed around it, a sense of being shocked hit him. Every hair on his skin stood on end, and he was left breathless. 

Deimos stood, watching as hesitation crossed Castiel’s features. 

“Your desire is not for bloodshed,” he murmured, “but for me.”

In an instant, Deimos had taken Castiel in his arms again. The position gave Castiel the perfect angle to end the god’s life, but he could not stop himself as the weapon slipped from his hands. 

“I-” 

“Hush.”

Castiel melted into Deimos as the god’s lips again captured his own, his arms curling around Deimos’ neck. 

_ We are one. _

Memories assaulted Castiel, ones that were not his own, and at last he understood. The past and present were colliding, and heaven help him, all Castiel wanted was Deimos’ touch. The thought that his body burned for a millenia-old being, who sought nothing more than the destruction of everything he cared for and loved most, was far from his mind as he pressed himself tighter against Deimos, who growled low in satisfaction. 

_ Take me,  _ he begged silently, and Deimos pulled back, his eyes on fire.

“As you wish, priest, so shall it be.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

Meg jolted awake with a start, her pulse racing. She wasn’t sure what had roused her, but something was very, very wrong. 

Throwing off the blankets she’d been covered with, Meg put her feet on the living room rug. She had to steady herself as her head swam, and she cursed Castiel for tricking her into becoming so drunk.

Carefully, she made her way into the kitchen, already knowing full well what she would see if she looked by the door. Sure enough, Castiel’s truck keys were gone.

“Fuck,” Meg whispered. 

. . .   
  


Deimos lifted Castiel bodily to sit him on the counter, lavender gaze hungry and yet somehow tender at the same time. It surprised Castiel, and he raised a shaking hand to trace Deimos’ stubbled cheek. The god leaned into his touch, his voice echoing in Castiel’s mind, as quiet as a spring rain and yet as heavy as thunder.

_ I have wanted you for more years than your mortal form has been alive, and I will not wait any longer. _

Castiel turned his head as Deimos’ teeth latched onto the side of his neck, worrying the skin there, and the thought that there would be a bruise present for all the world to see made Castiel squirm. Deimos caught his wrists, pinning them to either side of Castiel’s waist, and gracefully dropped to his knees. 

Castiel’s breath punched out of him in a rush as Deimos nosed at the zipper of his jeans, and against his will, his hips rose. Deimos only chuckled, and somehow, Castiel was rendered immovable and helpless as the god tore open the material, and then the boxers below, to expose Castiel’s weeping erection. 

At the first swipe of Deimos’ tongue, Castiel gasped. Both electricity and fire tunneled underneath his skin, and a heavy sweat broke out across his brow. The dance between himself and the god had finally come to a breaking point, and Castiel could not escape Deimos’ wicked ministrations. 

Nor, he reflected, did he want to.

. . .

“If you’re headed to save the priest, you stand no chance.”

Meg froze as she heard Amara’s voice, clear even over the frantic songs of the morning birds. Slowly, she turned.

The woman - or whatever she was, Meg thought - idly examined her blood-red nails where she leaned against a tall birch tree in Castiel’s front yard.

“I’d rather die trying to save him than let Deimos destroy him,” she said, her voice sounding far braver than she felt.

Amara looked up then, and Meg gasped as she saw her eyes. They were a rust-colored red ( _ like blood _ , Meg’s brain supplied readily), and Amara chuckled.

“What makes you so special that you believe I would settle for allowing you to live? I am the goddess of war, child. I have made men beg for death as they sobbed for mercy.” Amara was suddenly far too close, and then Meg saw the dreaded knife from before. She hurried backward, tripping over the gravel stones in the driveway. Amara followed, a twisted smile turning her lips upward.

“There’s no use in running. Accept your fate.”

Meg looked around. There was nothing to protect herself with, so she stood tall, though her heart was pounding.

“I’m sorry,” she snapped. “If you wanted me to beg, you’re shit out of luck.”

Amara’s expression turned to hatred.

“Beg? No, child. You will simply die.”

Meg drew a breath, stepping forward. Amara watched with interest.

“I won’t let you have the satisfaction of killing me, you goddamn bitch. So go the fuck back to hell.”

In the next instant, Meg had wrenched Amara’s knife from the woman’s hands and plunged it into her abdomen. She swayed where she was for a moment, and then crumpled to the pavement, where she lay still and silent.

Amara cocked her head, then mused aloud, “Well, that was simpler than expected.”

. . . 

The scent of his mate was everywhere and all around Castiel, and he choked on his desire as Deimos nibbled at the inside of his thigh. It was all too much and yet not enough at the same time, and Castiel was drowning.

“You are mine at last,” Deimos murmured heatedly. “And now all distractions have been dealt with.”

_ All distractions… _

Castiel let out a wild cry as his soul twisted violently within him. Something terrible had happened, and he shoved Deimos away, sitting up with a struggle.

“What did you do?” he gasped, hurriedly making himself decent. Deimos stared at him as though he were a strange new creature.

“I removed the last hindrance to our union.”

Bile rose to the back of Castiel’s throat as he realized what Deimos was saying. “Meg? You had Meg murdered?”

Deimos cocked his head. “She chose to end her own life. At least my aunt’s hands remained unstained by blood.”

Castiel screamed, and before Deimos could stop him, he’d retrieved the  _ harpē  _ and lashed out with it.

The god snarled, stumbling back. Blood dripped from a nasty looking wound across his wrist, and Deimos hissed, “Careful, priest. You know not what you wield.”

Castiel’s hand closed tighter around the hilt of the weapon as the two circled each other. 

“I know exactly what this is,” he snapped, “and if you come any closer, I  _ will  _ destroy you with it.”

Deimos smiled thinly. “You may try. Perhaps we should leave this...meeting...for another time.”

In the next moment, Castiel was alone in the shop, left with nothing except a bloodied blade and agony in his heart.

. . . 

  
  


Castiel drove back in the rays of the morning sun, not knowing what he would find when he reached his home. 

As he pulled around the bend toward the house, he saw nothing. Perhaps, his brain supplied, Deimos had simply been trying to play tricks on his mind. 

With a sigh, Castiel parked the truck at the bottom and got out, needing to stretch his legs and shake off the feeling of Deimos’ hands and mouth all over him. As he began the climb toward the porch, something bright red and glistening to his right caught his eye. 

It was blood, smeared over the dew-laden grass, and Castiel’s heart dropped to his stomach. Swallowing hard, he followed the trail, which grew deeper and darker as he did so. His heart pounding, Castiel let it lead him back to where he’d found Mollie Jean, which seemed eons ago now, and there, he let out a wrecked sob.

Sprawled amidst the dirty water was Meg, her pretty eyes staring up at nothing. The green blouse she wore was ripped and torn, and Castiel gagged as he saw the ugly wound on her stomach. Turning his head, he retched against the muddy hillside until the taste of his own bile threatened to choke him. 

_ Oh, my sweet friend. You should never have been involved in this. _

Gritting his teeth, Castiel pushed himself to his feet. For each life that Deimos stole from him, Castiel found himself growing stronger. If the god had meant to sap his will, he was accomplishing quite the opposite. 

There would be retribution after her burial, Castiel thought, and it would be swift. But there was someone he needed to see first, before he took his revenge. He could only pray there was still life in him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	18. Chapter 18

“Mr. Turner? You have a visitor today.”

Rufus grunted at the nurse, nose buried in a thick book. “Tell ‘em to come back. I’m busy.”

“He seems very eager to see you,” she replied patiently, and Rufus growled, “Fine. Whoever it is, I’ll see ‘em. But it ain’t my fault if they’re looking for a happy soul and I’m an asshole.”

With a slight roll of her eyes, the nurse left the hospital library and returned quickly with someone that made Rufus drop the book on the table with a loud thud. 

“Castiel? How the devil did you-”

Without allowing him to finish, Castiel sat across from the older man, fire in his gaze. Rufus stared at him, taken aback as Castiel spoke in a furious, quiet tone.

“Deimos is slowly taking everything from me. I know that book in your hands isn’t  _ The Count of Monte Cristo.  _ What’s behind it, Rufus? And don’t lie to me.”

Rufus swallowed hard. “You really don’t wanna know about-”

“ _ Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”  _ Castiel’s voice was a hiss, and Rufus’s shoulders sagged. 

“This ain’t the place for us to be discussin’ shit,” he murmured, glancing around at the other patients who were with them in the room. Castiel glared at him.

“I swear by everything I know, Rufus, if you don’t stop fucking with me, I  _ will  _ let Deimos come after you. Everyone I’ve ever loved has died - Balthazar; Mollie Jean; Meg; my parents. I’m tired of all the bullshit. Either talk to me or don’t, but if you stay silent, it will be the last you hear of me. I plan to stop Deimos no matter what it takes, and if I go down, you’ll remember for the rest of whatever time you have left that you chose to stick your head in the sand like an ostrich instead of helping me.”

Rufus’s eyes darted around, and Castiel was certain the man would not help him. Purposefully, he rose from his seat, but Rufus caught his wrist in a tight grip.

“Wait.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, staring at him harshly, and Rufus swallowed. “You wanna know everything? I’ll tell you, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

“I don’t have to like it,” Castiel spat. “I have to save the world.”

Rufus’ jaw trembled visibly, but he said, “Come out to the garden with me, boy. You asked for the whole truth and nothing but, and that’s what you’re gonna get.”

. . . 

It had started to rain lightly, but neither man noticed as Rufus limped through the greenhouse, finally settling at a window seat that overlooked the barren ground.

Castiel did not sit. He was far too edgy, and only wanted answers. Rufus set down the  _ Count of Monte Cristo,  _ pushing it toward Castiel, who stared hard at it.

“Open it. You were right - it ain’t no classic piece of literature.” Rufus’ hands shook slightly. “It’s the last of what you are, boy - the single surviving thing your ma and dad wanted me to keep for you. They died tryin’ to protect it.”

Indeed, as Castiel carefully picked the tome up, he could smell lingering ash on the front and back cover, and water stains marred the edges of the pages. It was as though the book had literally gone, as the saying went, through hell and high water. If it was that precious - if Rufus had kept it all these years - Castiel knew he had better pay attention to whatever it said.

Gingerly, Castiel opened the worn pages. Scrawled on the first page, in a steady, flowing hand, was a Latin phrase.

_ Nascimur male immolabimus ergo vale. _

Castiel looked up at Rufus. “ ‘We who are born sick offer you farewell’,” he quoted quietly. “How sick are the two of us, Rufus?”

“You brave enough to look in that book and find out? ‘Cause I already know what it says.”

Castiel held his gaze for a moment, and then turned the page. Drawn in deep red ink - or blood - was a familiar symbol, one that Castiel had hoped to never see again.

_ Peorth. _

“The Phoenix rises and falls by its own course,” Castiel murmured, and Rufus stared at him, his jaw trembling. 

“That’s what your daddy always said,” he replied, and before Castiel could turn another page, Rufus placed his hands over Castiel’s own, his rough, calloused ones tender.

“I ain’t got much time left, boy. We’re all goin’ way down unless you do what you gotta.” He drew a breath. “We all get what we deserve, but I know your parents never wanted that for you.” Swallowing hard, he added, “You’re gonna face your biggest test in the coming days. Take that book. Don’t just read it. Treat it like it’s your lifeline. Because it is. The Devil’s Handbook? That’s only gonna ruin you. This book is the only way to fix everything.”

Castiel gently withdrew his hands. “I’ll visit in a few days.”

“I won’t be here.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder. He would have spoken, but Rufus said grimly, “Spread your wings, boy. And rise.”

. . .

That night, Castiel curled up cross-legged on his bed and gently opened the book. The handwriting was neat, easily readable, and Castiel wondered which of his parents had scrawled in it. 

He’d known little of them, save their names. Bela and Arthur Novak had been quite young when they’d had Castiel, from what Rufus had told him, and the two had been deeply in love. In the pages, he could feel the remains of their protectiveness toward their only son.

Castiel closed his eyes. He wasn’t one for praying, not for a long time, but he needed all the help he could get. 

_ If anyone is listening, help me,  _ he pleaded.  _ I can’t do this without guidance of some sort. _

As Castiel leafed through the book, numerous spells jumped out at him. Some were ancient Sumerian; others Latin and Egyptian; and some in languages that Castiel did not recognize. They all seemed to speak of a great evil that would swallow the world, and of a savior that would lock it back from whence it came. Amidst the spells were notes and references made in the margins, some dating back before Castiel had been born. How long had Bela and Arthur known about his destiny? How long had they known of their fate?

It was getting close to midnight, and Castiel rubbed at his eyes. As he looked back down at the tome in his hands, a brittle piece of paper, unattached to the book itself but rather tucked into the pages, caught his eye. Gingerly, he unfolded it. The creases had rendered the words nearly unreadable, but Castiel was nothing if not patient.

_ My dearest boy: _

_ By the time you’ve read this, your mother and I will be long dead. There’s no blame to place at your feet - you could not know how your past life would affect the present. _

_ The ancient god Deimos is not after you simply because he wants another prize. The degree to which you choose to heed my words will determine who is saved, who is lost, and what becomes of you, Castiel. _

_ In this life, you are the son of Bela and Arthur Novak, a normal boy who plays in the dirt and with his mates, and oftentimes is scolded by his mother (and usually with good reason!). You are our only child, and we adore you. _

_ Seven hundred centuries ago, things were quite different. _

_ Your name then was Amias, and your parents were poor, so poor that they offered the great Zeus your soul as payment during the sacrificial festival. I doubt they believed he would accept their offer - a grave mistake, for he did indeed, striking them with fever and great illness as punishment for their unbelief. They perished soon after, leaving you an orphan. _

_ ‘ _

_ There was a secret sect called  _ **_Spiritus Vitae_ ** _ , and their sole purpose was to hold the peace steady between the gods and the earth. They took you in and trained you in their ways, and when you had reached the age of sixteen, they gifted you with a  _ **_harpē_ ** _ , their most precious and most effective weapon against the darkness. _

_ You were taught to use it, along with how to carry on in the physical world without revealing your true identity. For some years, things were all right. _

_ And then, Zeus came calling for his due.  _

_ He sent the most dangerous, seductive, powerful dark god he held in the Underworld. Deimos knew his mission was only to destroy you, nothing more, yet from the moment he set eyes on you, he was lost. And, you, my dear son, could not resist his charms. He appeared as a mere mortal man, and when your love was consummated, the entirety of  _ **_Spiritus Vitae_ ** _ was slaughtered by minor minions willing to do Deimos’ work. It appeared that everything had been for naught. _

_ But Zeus did not factor in one precious part: that you would be reborn in this century to a couple long familiar with this war which you now wage. Your mother and I know that our time will soon come, but before we are taken from this world, we will dedicate to you the volume you likely now hold in your hands. Use it wisely - what is within is powerful, and cannot be taken lightly. And above all, keep it close. For it to fall into Deimos’ hands would spell utter destruction for us all...and the world. _

_ My dear Castiel, do not give in to despair. Remember that though we are no longer on this earthly plane, our love remains. We shall meet again. _

_ Your Adoring Father, Arthur _

Castiel carefully folded up the letter, tears in his eyes. To never see the faces of his parents was something that he would forever blame Deimos for. The god would not have him, and if he thought differently, Castiel was quite ready to show him otherwise.

. . .

The night wore on as Castiel leafed through the book and made notes, and soon the sun was peering over the horizon, sending bright yellow rays across his floor and sheets. Wearily, he rubbed at his gritty eyes. 

Most of the spells were far too complicated for Castiel to even begin to attempt - some even called for ingredients only found in the Middle East or Europe - but there was one he had come across that seemed to call to him. He had tried to ignore it in favor of a different route, but he had been drawn back to it again and again. The language was old; far older than any he had yet seen, and from his background as an anthropologist, he guessed that it was paganistic in nature. The words were made up mostly of vowels, consonants, and creative diphthongs, and to pronounce them was something that Castiel dared not try, not until he had practiced the words in his head beforehand. If he was to stumble over the spell, there was no telling what could happen.

Running his fingers over the page, Castiel’s nerves begin to sing. The feeling was so intense that he gasped in pain, wondering if he had somehow spoken the spell into existence simply by reading it. Curling into himself on the bed, Castiel rolled over onto his left side, and it was then he saw something utterly unbelievable - a violet fire, dancing across the tips of his fingers. 

With a loud yelp, Castiel tumbled to the floor, staring in horror at the flames. He would be terribly scarred; his hand useless for the rest of his life. 

It was then that he realized the flames were simply... _ there.  _ They weren’t injuring him, and at once Castiel was reminded of the old story of Moses and the burning bush. 

_ Well, this is certainly not from that god,  _ he thought, and with a wince, brought his hand closer to his face. To his shock, the flames subsided. He moved his hand away, and the flames returned to their original state. Back, and they became low again. Over and over Castiel repeated the motion, like a small child fascinated by a toy. 

What was going on? And how was he going to be able to stop it?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the flames disappeared. Castiel gaped, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. Trembling, he reached for the phone, and then thought better of it, stumbling up onto numb legs and heading for the back door.


	19. Chapter 19

“I need to see Rufus Turner.”

The young security desk officer blinked wearily at him. “Sir, it’s barely past seven a.m. We don’t open for visitors until eight a.m., and besides, most of our residents - likely including Mr. Turner - are sleeping.”

Castiel clenched his jaw. “You don’t understand. This is…” He paused. To say  _ an emergency  _ would bring down unwanted attention. “It’s a matter of great importance. Please.”

The officer stared at him a moment longer, and something in Castiel’s eyes must have made his choice. He sighed, muttering, “My ass is grass for this,” and unlocked the facility doors, leading Castiel past the nurses’ desk, which was thankfully empty, and to another door marked with the number 17, which was slightly ajar. 

“That’s Mr. Turner’s room, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to my coffee.”

Castiel barely saw the officer leave. He pushed the door open soundlessly and came to stand at the edge of the bed, where Rufus lay on his back, hands clasped over his chest as if in prayer. 

“Rufus,” Castiel said softly. “It’s Castiel. We need to talk.”

There was no reply, and Castiel sighed. “Rufus, don’t ignore me. I know you’re the lightest sleeper on this earth. I need you.”

Rufus’ eyes remained closed, and Castiel suddenly felt very cold. On instinct, he moved closer, and reached out to place two fingers over the hunter’s throat.

The telltale, rhythmic thumping was nonexistent.

Castiel swallowed thickly. “ _ Requiem in pace,”  _ he whispered, just as one of the nurses came storming in. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing in here?” she demanded, and then, at the look on Castiel’s face, immediately leaned over Rufus, performing the same two-finger check. She spun around, yelling for two other nurses, whose names Castiel didn’t bother to listen to. 

Numbly, he watched from the doorway as they attempted to resuscitate him, over and over, until at last one of the nurses looked up at her colleagues, shaking her head.

“He’s gone. We have to call it.”

Castiel didn’t bother to hear anything else. Tears streaming down his face, he quickly walked out of the facility, the paper Rufus had been holding onto so tightly tucked into his jacket pocket.

. . . 

Barely making it through the door of his house, Castiel leaned against the wall, unable to believe the number of deaths of the ones he cared about that he had experienced. At one time, 

he had been a simple anthropology professor, happily married, and with a dog. Now, he was the last surviving member of an ancient Greek sect, fighting to keep an ancient god that, on Zeus’ behalf, had been sent to destroy the entire world.

Balthazar. Mollie Jean. Meg. Crowley. And now Rufus. 

If he was truly meant to protect mankind until his last breath, Castiel was certain he was doing a piss-poor job.

Something crinkled in his fist, and Castiel remembered what he had taken from Rufus. Offering a small prayer to whomever might be listening, Castiel sat heavily at his kitchen table, turning on the lamp, and unfolded the small piece of notebook paper. Rufus’ chicken scratch jumped out at him, and blinking hard, Castiel began to read.

_ By now you’ve probably figured out that having flames dance across your hands isn’t something that happens to normal people. _

Ceasing to read briefly, Castiel snorted. Rufus had been nothing if not straight to the point.

_ Listen to me, boy: this isn’t some hallucination or you starting to lose your marbles. This is majick, deep soul majick, and you can control it. Your daddy and mama had the same gift, and they died in that car wreck trying to stop Deimos. They weren’t weak by any means, it was just that the bastard they were trying to destroy was stronger.  _

_ I’m gonna warn you: you need to hone it. It won’t just obey you instantly. It’s kind of like anything else: keep practicing with it, and one day it becomes natural to you as breathing. But do it. Between the  _ **_harpē_ ** _ and that, Deimos is gonna be gone before I can take my next breath. _

Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat. Rufus’ next breath had never come.

_ Make sure that you do what I say, and only what I say. That book I gave you is full of good ideas, and you can use some of ‘em, but don’t go messing around with things you don’t understand in there. Sometimes - hell, most of the time - too much knowledge is a terrible thing. _

_ Rufus _


	20. Chapter 20

Castiel was exhausted, but he knew that he could not simply stop and give up. There were far too many lives that hung in the balance, his own included, and he knew that Bela and Arthur would encourage him to press on despite the difficulties he faced. 

He wished that he had his father to help him with the magick part of the equation. Arthur Ketch had always been interested in the occult, but not for the hundreds of reasons people accused him of. He was of the mind that those who truly sought out the many secret, ancient practices written in thousand-year-old books, hidden away in the crevices of library and bookstore shelves, could be turned into help, healing, and wholeness for the good of all. 

It was Arthur who would study late into the night, researching languages long dead and creating sheafs of paper that held all of the many incantations and instructions he found. Yet he was also quite adamant that one wrong word, move, or lapse of speech could bring forth something that would be terribly difficult, if not impossible, to stuff back into its box. 

Standing in front of his closet, Castiel sighed and opened it. Stacked neatly on the top shelves were Balthazar’s shoes, clothes, and other items, but it was not those which Castiel sought. Moving them gently aside, he pulled forward another, far more precious item and gently brought it down, blowing dust off the top.

It was a strongbox, one that held the remains of his parents’ possessions - their wedding rings, certificate of marriage, photos, and the like. But Castiel carefully bypassed those, instead placing them on the bed behind him, and at the very bottom of the deep container, found what he was looking for. 

Beginning to yellow with age and smell musty, a thick manila envelope rested, with a Post-It note taped to the top left corner that read simply,  _ Castiel.  _ Reverently, Castiel turned the packet over and gently undid the rusting clips that held it closed, gingerly pulling out a stack of unlined paper.

For a moment, Castiel simply stared at what he held in his hands. This was his father’s life’s work, his entire reason for being besides his child and wife, and his final gift to his son, and another lump filled Castiel’s throat. The feeling was becoming all too familiar, he thought ruefully, and settled on the coverlet.

Arthur’s notes were extensive and often difficult to understand - some were carefully thought out and planned with many footnotes, and some were rushed, as though he’d suddenly had a moment of extreme clarity and was determined to get the thought out before it slipped away. It was clear that Arthur had been a brilliant man, and it only left Castiel yearning for his guidance even more at the present time.

Suddenly, Castiel paused halfway through his father’s work. On a page that was beginning to tear at the corners was a long dissertation, and every hair on Castiel’s arms and neck rose as he began to read. 

It spoke of a priest that would one day come to eradicate “that which cannot be named” from the earth - a priest of great power, with a weapon which would serve as the unnamed one’s destruction. This priest would hold within himself a source to save the world, and as Castiel turned to the next page, there was a simple pencil sketch, one that Arthur had obviously drawn. Castiel’s throat turned dry as he looked at it.

It was of a faceless man, one from whose hands sprung tongues of fire. Beneath the sketch was a simple phrase, written in Latin:  _ Lucifer Lux.  _

Bringer of light.

At once, Castiel was reminded of Balthazar’s book and the description of the rite of the phoenix. He shuddered, half in fear and half in nervous anticipation. What exactly was he? And had Arthur known of his son’s fate all along, even from the moment of his birth?

It would appear that way, indeed, Castiel thought.

A sharp rapping at his front door made Castiel sit up straight instantly, his eyes narrowing. All those he cared for were gone, and the postmaster never knocked, only sliding the mail through the slot to the floor. Turning his head, Castiel looked at the drawer beside the bed. He knew within it lay a gun, which Balthazar had insisted on retaining a permit for in the case of a burglary and the need to protect them both. 

The rapping sounded again, and without a second’s thought, Castiel flung open the drawer and retrieved the weapon. Balthazar had taught him how to use it, and with it in the defensive position, Castiel carefully made his way downstairs, plastering himself to the wall beside the door. On the count of three, he flung it open and aimed.

“Whoa, whoa! Don’t go making a hole in me! Amara already tried that twice!”

Numbly, Castiel let the gun drop to his side, unable to believe what he was seeing - or rather, whom.

“...Meg?”

  
  
  



	21. Chapter 21

“Put that damn thing away before the neighborhood calls the cops,” she urged, and stepped over the threshold, closing the door.

All Castiel could do was stare at her, the memory of finding her dead body on his property returning. In an instant, he pushed her against the banister, holding her in place as she struggled.

“Clarence, what the actual _ fuck _ -”

“Who are you?” he growled out. “Meg Masters is dead. I saw her body.”

Sympathetic eyes focused on him. “I know what you saw - or what you think you saw. I faked my own death to get away from Amara.”

Castiel’s breath came in shallow bursts. “I don’t believe you. I know what the dead look like, and she was gone.”

“Clarence, look at me. Really look.”

Clenching his teeth at the nickname only his best friend would ever have the right to use, Castiel stared into brown eyes, then closely examined her otherwise. It looked so much like Meg, and his heart was so willing to believe, but he could not afford to fall prey to Deimos’ lies.

She sighed and turned around to face the banister, and Castiel gasped. Running across the back of her right shoulder was an intricate scar, formed from a hiking mishap when they were twenty. 

Castiel began to tremble. Deimos was a master at distraction and mirage, but there was no way he could have possibly managed to get the intricacies of the scar correct. The way the skin had stitched itself together was too complicated to replicate.

“Meg?” he whispered, and she turned back around to throw her arms around him. He held her tightly, wondering how in the name of all that was good she had managed to accomplish something so sophisticated.

After a moment, she pulled back with damp eyes. Still dazed, Castiel asked, “How did you - I thought-”

She tugged at his arm. “Liquor first. I’ve been on the run for weeks.”

Castiel let Meg drag him into the kitchen, where he sat heavily on a barstool as she proceeded to rummage through his fridge. “Don’t you have anything besides beer these days?”

Wordlessly, Castiel pointed to Balthazar’s elegant teak wood liquor cabinet. Meg opened the doors and found a bottle of Absolut and two glasses, and proceeded to pour them straight vodkas. She pushed his over.

“Bottoms up.”

Without waiting for Castiel, Meg took a deep breath and drained half of hers in one swallow, grimacing at the harshness of the burn before she said, “I’m sorry I had to do that to you, Castiel. But it was the only way to survive - and it’s brought about some interesting developments.”

Castiel, for his part, took the entirety of the drink in one fell swoop. He was shaken, confused, and utterly in the dark about everything, and none of them were a good combination when it came to his mental state. Hoarsely, he asked, “How?”

Cradling the glass, Meg looked down at the table. “I knew Amara wasn’t going to let me live, and I also knew that since she’s a twisted bitch, it was going to be a slow, painful death. Before I left my house the night before I stayed here, I’d taken a stab proof vest with me. You know my father was a cop in his lifetime, and I still have all his stuff. Amara has a relationship with that knife I’m not too fond of, and I didn’t want to die. So I put it on under my clothes, came here, and…” Meg trailed off with a small, guilty shrug. “You know the rest of the story.”

“But the blood...and the wound…” The images were still with him, and Castiel grabbed for the bottle, pouring himself another full glass and throwing some back. 

“Just tricks,” she said, and Castiel stared at her with wild eyes. Gently, she pulled the vodka away from him, continuing, “My kid nephew came over for Halloween last year. He was some sort of monster, and he’d covered himself in fake blood. He’d left some of his stuff behind, and in it I found a bag of the blood. So I strapped it to my waist on top of the stab vest, and that was that.”

Castiel let out a shuddering sigh. His hands were shaking furiously, Meg noticed, and she added, “I had to make everything look as real as possible, Castiel. Otherwise, you’d have had a real reason to mourn - not that you didn’t,” she amended quickly, as he glared at her. “But I had to fool her. And it worked.”

There was silence for a few moments as she toyed with her glass, and then Castiel spoke. “You mentioned ‘interesting developments’. What do you mean by that?”

Meg swallowed hard. “I met some...friends.”

Castiel stared hard at her. “Are these  _ friends  _ ones that I may have to add to my list along with Deimos?”

“No. They...they’re…” Meg swallowed again. “They want to help.”

Castiel’s stomach twisted, and he laughed bitterly. “Help? We’re facing a god, Meg. How can mortals possibly help?”

Meg looked up at him, her eyes filled with trepidation. “They’re not mortal. They….they’re like you.”

Castiel froze. “What?”

“They told me they were warlocks. That they knew the power you carried, and how you couldn’t do this alone. And…” Meg paused.

“And what?” Castiel demanded.

“They’re a coven, Cas. More specifically, Balthazar’s coven. They want to meet with us tomorrow night at the leader’s home.”

Castiel’s head reeled, and his heart lurched within him. “Do they have a name?” he asked, already knowing the answer he would receive.

Sure enough, Meg replied quietly, “ _ Spiritus Vitae.” _

  
  
  
  



	22. Chapter 22

“Just knock,” Meg urged, as she and Castiel stood outside the elegant home of the coven leader. “They’re not gonna hurt us, Castiel. Balthazar was your husband.”

Castiel raised his fist after a brief pause, but before it met the carved wood of the door, it was opened to reveal a tall young man, who said softly, “All who enter here with good intent are never to fear for their lives, Castiel Novak.”

Castiel stiffened, and Meg quickly put a hand on his arm. The other man gave a half-smile, gesturing behind himself.

“Please, enter. We have been waiting for you both.”

Meg was the first to walk past him. Before she managed to get more than a foot into the house, she stumbled and nearly fell. Castiel leaped after her, but the other man had already smoothly righted her.

“I apologize,” he said. “Oftentimes our magick is far too strong for mortals to be in contact with.”

Meg let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. No shit.”

The warlock looked at Castiel. “Your companion has quite the aura.”

Castiel frowned in irritation just as Meg asked, “What the hell’s an aura?” It was clear she was still annoyed at her near-fall from the power in the house.

“Let us describe it simply as the color of your soul,” he replied, and Meg looked at Castiel, wide-eyed.

“My soul has  _ colors? _ ”

The man laughed. “Come.”

Castiel and Meg followed as he walked into an enormous living room. Meg’s eyes widened as she took in the numerous expensive items on the many bookshelves, but Castiel was focused only on one thing - an older gentleman with gray hair and piercing hazel eyes, who sat in a comfortable leather chair by the fireplace. 

“Kristof,” Castiel murmured, and as one, all eyes in the room turned to him.

There was silence from the others as the coven leader rose from his seat, speaking softly. “Castiel Novak. It has been quite some time.”

Meg’s eyes darted between the two of them. “You know each other?”

Without looking at her, Castiel replied, “Kristof has been the leader of this coven for far, far longer than you or I have been alive. He came to Balthazar’s funeral.”

Meg eyed the warlock. “You can’t be more than sixty.”

Kristof chuckled. “My dear, I am seven hundred years old.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Meg’s jaw hit the floor. He ignored it, saying instead, “Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you tell me you, and all the others here, are members of  _ Spiritus Vitae? _ ” 

Kristof sat back down, crossing one leg over the other. “You had not yet come into your own. I could not risk revealing the truth. It would have gotten you killed.”

Castiel’s hand clenched into a fist. “Is this why Balthazar died? Because of Deimos?”

Kristof’s gaze did not move from Castiel’s as he replied, “He knew the risks, Castiel.”

“He was my husband!” Castiel yelled. “I loved him more than life itself, and you withheld vital information that allowed him to die!”

Meg gasped as the flames in the fireplace flared with a roar, hot and bright, and some around them began to murmur quietly. Kristof spoke softly. 

“Balthazar could not help but fall in love with you, Castiel. When he discovered what you were - what you would become - he was warned of Deimos and what would soon occur, but he refused to walk away.”

“Did you encourage him to  _ walk away _ ?” Castiel growled, and Kristof raised his chin. The room became slightly colder, and Meg shivered, half from the chill and half in fear.

“Am I to assume you are placing blame at my feet?”

Castiel’s jaw twitched. “I blame Deimos first and foremost, but you should have told Balthazar to tell me what was going on.”

“Castiel.” Kristof leaned forward, folding his hands. “Do you honestly believe that your mind would not have broken under the strain of knowing you were meant to save the world? Of realizing your past with Deimos? We could not risk-”

“What do you mean,  _ we?” _

“Balthazar was well aware of everything you have just recently discovered. He was sent to protect you.”

Castiel took a step back, in shock. “He was - but our marriage-”

“Was quite real,” Kristof assured him, and some of the warmth returned to the room. His gaze turned sad. “However, his duties to  _ Spiritus Vitae  _ were also real. He died for them.”

Castiel was quiet for a long time. When he eventually spoke again, so was his voice. 

“So what happens now?”

“Deimos must be stopped at any cost. We have pledged to aid you in every possible way,” Kristof said, and rose. His eyes remained on Castiel. “Do you have the weapon?”

“The  _ harpē? _ ” Castiel asked, and, at Kristof’s nod, replied, “Yes. I took it from its hiding place.”

“And the writings from Arthur?” 

“The writings from-?” Castiel began, confused, and then realized what Kristof meant. 

Meg watched as all the color drained from Castiel’s face. He swallowed before replying thickly, “You knew my father?”

“We more than knew him,” Kristof replied gently. “He was our greatest warrior.”


	23. Chapter 23

Meg looked at Castiel as they sat on the bed in the room the coven had provided them for the night. Since the warlock’s announcement, he had been almost completely silent. It had been like pulling teeth to get him to answer what side of the mattress he wanted, and even then, he’d simply pointed to the left.

“Clarence,” she said softly, and then, when he didn’t reply, “Castiel, you have to face this.”

At last, Castiel looked at her, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. “I don’t know how,” he said wearily. “Everything is happening all at once, and I’m not certain how to handle it. And to find out that my father was - I mean, I’m sure I realized it in my heart, but to hear it from Kristof’s own mouth…” He trailed off, and Meg placed a hand on his arm.

“I know that this is a difficult time for you,” she said softly, “but Fate is strange, Castiel. Maybe ever since you were born - in whatever century - they’ve been determined to use you.”

“Well, they’ve certainly accomplished that,” Castiel said bitterly, and she shook her head. “That isn’t what I meant. Did you ever think that all of this is a blessing and not a curse?”

Castiel looked at her as though she’d lost her mind, and Meg’s eyes latched onto his. “Whoever you were or are, this world obviously needs you, desperately. Maybe you need to stop protesting what’s going on and start acting on what you have to do.”

At that, Castiel sighed, his shoulders hunched in as he leaned forward. “You’re probably right. I’m just so tired, Meg. And…” He stopped, but she pressed, “And what?”

“Deimos has been visiting me in my dreams every night,” he replied quietly. “He knows where we are, but because of the wards and the majick present, he can’t get to me...yet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Meg was obviously upset, but Castiel continued anyway. 

“He’s been...whispering things to me. Telling me I was meant for so much more than ‘this mortal coil’,” Castiel air-quoted. “He wants me to give in and accept my destiny.”

“What does he think that is?” Meg asked, and Castiel chuckled mirthlessly. 

“To be his eternal lover and rule the earth by his side.”

Meg opened her mouth just as a pounding sounded at the door. Castiel rose immediately with Meg at his side, yelling out irritably, “For the love of - what do you want?!”

Instead of answering the question, the door was flung open. Kristof stood there, his face set like flint and his eyes filled with a ferocity that made Meg step back.

“What is it?” Castiel asked immediately, and Kristof’s words made him swallow hard.

“Deimos and Enyo are leading their spawn toward this place. They are less than two miles away.”

At Meg’s gasp, Kristof’s gaze addressed them both. “Castiel, the girl cannot be involved. Six of my coven will take her to a safe place.”

“I’m not leaving him!” Meg cried, as five men and a woman entered swiftly, one of them taking her by the arm and pulling her backward. “Castiel! CASTIEL!”

Kristof stared hard at Castiel, who said softly, “Go with them, Meg.” He paused. “Now is the time to act.”

Her frightened, tear-filled eyes were seen for a moment more as she looked over her shoulder, and then she was gone.

“Kristof,” Castiel said sharply. “She’ll live through this, won’t she?”

The warlock held his gaze, but instead of answering the question, he replied, “There is no time to train you properly as we had planned. Castiel, this night you must act on instinct, courage, and skill. Refuse the help of even one, and we are all doomed.”

Castiel slid the  _ harpē  _ from underneath the mattress, and Kristof allowed it a brief glance before he said, “ _ Ex favilla et cinere. _ ”

Without hesitation, Castiel replied, “ _ Et Phoenix resurget.”  _ And then, to his surprise, Kristof took Castiel’s face in his hands. “Your father is with you, my child. Now go.”

With one last look into hazel eyes, Castiel broke free from Kristof’s grip and threw himself down the stairs, past the coven, and out into the night.

  
  



	24. Chapter 24

Amara paused as Deimos held up a hand, signalling his followers to stay where they were in the fields. 

“You know that we cannot pass the wards,” she reminded him, and Deimos’ eyes glinted in the moonlight as he looked at her.

“We cannot. She can.”

Amara’s laugh echoed throughout the night as Meg was dragged forward by three of Deimos’ spawn, her shrieks and curses only bringing jeers. Thrown to her knees before them, Amara hummed. 

“It was my belief I killed you, my dear.”

“Go to hell, you fucking twat,” Meg spat, though her voice shook. The words made the demons behind Deimos laugh uproariously, and Meg trembled as Deimos gripped her chin firmly in his hand, the bodies of the coven members appointed to guard her quite literally smoldering feet from them.

“You’ve put up quite a fight, my little spitfire. But you will lead us to Kristof and the coven, or it is your own grave you will dig.”

Meg spat in his face. Amara moved to draw her knife, but Deimos only chuckled. 

“I see that you still believe in the name of good. You shall see what true power is when we are through with this night, child.”

Meg struggled as she was dragged to her feet once more. “I won’t do this,” she hissed. “I won’t bow to the likes of either of you, and I sure as hell won’t help you destroy Castiel and the others.”

Deimos’ eyes narrowed. “You are playing with fire, girl. Give me what I want, or-”

“Let her go, Deimos!”

Meg moaned in dismay at the sight of Castiel, who stood tall amidst the grass and weeds. In his hand was a familiar object, and Amara snarled. 

“Nephew, dearest, he has our toy.”

Meg peered at Castiel. He seemed sure of himself, completely unafraid, and she could only hope for all of their sakes that it wasn’t false bravado.

“This has never belonged to you,” Castiel replied, his voice firm and steady, and Amara snapped, “You will die like the worthless dog you are. I swear that I will tear you to pieces before-”

“No.”

Amara looked at Deimos as though he’d suddenly gone mad. “No?”

“No,” Deimos repeated, his gaze fixed on Castiel. “If he wishes to fight, then it is I who will finish him, as much as it may pain me to do so.”

“Get over yourself,” Meg muttered, and then let out a cry as one of her stronger captors tightened his hold on her painfully.

“Another sound, and I will make you scream like a pierced sow,” the demon warned. 

“I doubt that.”

Castiel was by Meg’s side before she could blink, and in one smooth move, had sliced the demon from stem to stern with the  _ harpē _ . The creature made no sound as it fell, and Deimos roared in sudden anger.

Castiel shoved Meg away. “Run back to the house. No one will follow.”

“Are you so sure?” Amara hissed, and Castiel pointed the blade at her. 

“She isn’t the one Deimos wants.”

A smile curved the god’s lips upward. “It seems,” he said slowly, moving closer as his demons shifted restlessly, “that you have changed, Amias.” And then a dark scowl crossed his face, one that would have made an ordinary man run.

“You have betrayed me.”

Castiel raised his chin. “I never promised you anything.”

“You seem to forget the nights in my bed,” Deimos spat. “There were many promises made there, as I recall.”

“I was a young man with no clear indication or idea of who or what you truly were.” Castiel stood still, but kept the  _ harpē  _ close by his side. “You are a monster that must be stopped, and I plan to do just that.”

“Do you, now?” Deimos growled. “I would watch your tongue before my sweet aunt removes it,  _ Castiel _ .”

To the surprise of all but Castiel himself, tongues of purple fire leapt from his fingertips to swallow the blade up in magick. Deimos’ eyes narrowed, and he said softly, “Your father taught you well.”

Castiel raised the blade again, this time in a defensive stance. “He taught me to do his will. You will die tonight, Deimos, even should I perish with you.”

Deimos’ lavender gaze was terrible to behold, and he raised a hand. As one, the demons began to advance.

“It appears that shall be the case, my naïve little fool.”

. . .

Kristof caught Meg as her knees gave out, his grip firm. When she could catch her breath again, she pleaded, “Castiel went to the fields. He’s facing Deimos and his horde alone.”

“And the ones sent to guard you?” Kristof asked. 

Meg shook her head, panic and something very much like hysteria welling up in her eyes. “Deimos...he burned them alive.”

At once, Kristof scooped her up and carried her into the living room, settling her gently on the couch before turning to a coven member that had appeared at his side.

“Monitor her.” To the rest of the room, he said quietly, “You know what we must do.  _ Nam qui innocentes.” _

“ _ Pro libertate _ ,” was the choral response. Meg fought the coven member who sought to keep her calm as she yelped, “What does that mean? Didn’t you hear me? Your other friends were fucking  _ burned alive.  _ The same thing will happen to you! You can’t-”

“We must.” Kristof cut her off. “It is our duty.”

“Your duty to what? Die?!”

Kristof’s gaze was unnerving as he said, “To stop a devil.”

. . . 

Castiel breathed hard as he sent yet another demon back to the Underworld. His arm ached from wielding the  _ harpē _ , which seemed to grow heavier with each strike - and Deimos’ followers just kept coming.

Above the screams of the dying and the stench of sulfur and blood, Castiel heard Deimos’ voice in his head. 

_ You pathetic novice. Did you truly believe that you could keep your world from becoming mine? I watched as the breath left your father’s lungs, and then I greedily took your mother’s life. You are  _ **_nothing_ ** _.  _

The image of a car trapped in a ravine came unbidden to Castiel’s mind, and in that vision, he saw a man slowly breathe his last in the driver’s seat. A woman next to him stumbled from the vehicle, her leg obviously injured, and raised her hands, beginning to cast a spell. She did not finish it, however, before a taller individual caught her by the throat and whispered words of death. It was not long before she slumped in his arms and was carelessly tossed aside like a rag doll. 

Castiel blinked. Something wet and sticky was running down his cheek, and he realized it was blood. Blearily, he looked up to find Deimos standing over him, the  _ harpē  _ in his possession. The god eyed his former lover with rage and scorn.

“You would have had everything you desired, had you not decided to cast yourself into this life and be born to two creatures who gave their life for yours - to no avail, I might add. You were willing to die for your cause. I hope that is still the case.”

Castiel laughed outright, and Deimos’ jaw tightened. “Is something amusing?”

“You’re under the impression that power means love. You know nothing of either word.” Slowly, Castiel got to his feet, despite the lightheadedness he felt, and reached out with all his senses, straining for what he knew in his heart was there. But he was quite unprepared for what happened next.

Deimos stepped back as blue-white light flared around Castiel, baring his teeth as he hissed, “What magick is this?” 

Castiel followed as Deimos retreated, his very soul burning within him. “My magick,” he replied firmly. “The magick created when one gives their life for another. The magick of parents who would protect their child even unto death.” The memory rose again, and Castiel lashed out with it.

Deimos roared and stumbled back, a bloody gash across his shoulder. “You dare to wound me?” he hissed.

Castiel’s gaze was fixed on the god. “And more.”

Before Deimos could utter a reply or even move, Castiel had thrust the  _ harpē  _ through Deimos’ stomach.

Deimos stood frozen, his hand reaching up to grasp the hilt as his eyes met Castiel’s. Dark blood trickled from the corner of his mouth when he spoke.

“Well done, little mage.”

Without another word, Deimos fell and lay upon the trampled grass, his lavender gaze fading to green as he stared unseeing up at the sky, bright with the coming dawn.

Cries and snarls were heard behind him, and Castiel turned to find Kristof and his coven disposing of the other demons without issue. Retrieving the  _ harpē _ , Castiel turned to find Amara behind him, her face twisted in sorrow and hatred. 

“Now  _ you  _ die,” she whispered, and raised her knife. But the blow never came. Her head lurched to the side, and she landed beside Deimos.

Stunned, Castiel met Meg’s eyes, which were cold and unfeeling as she said, “Fucking bitch had it coming.”’

The wails of the other demons had stopped, and Castiel realized that Kristof and his coven had disposed of all of them. Bloodied yet alive, the coven leader walked up to them, his eyes landing on Deimos and Amara, their hands nearly touching as they lay dead. He spoke softly.

“From ashes to ashes.”

Just as softly, Castiel replied, “So let it be.”


	25. Chapter 25

Over the next few days, Castiel and Meg regained their strength at Kristof’s home. One afternoon, Castiel walked into the living room after a long, hot shower to find a familiar book on the coffee table. He paused, and Kristof’s voice came from behind him.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

A surge of hatred filled Castiel as he stared at The Devil’s Handbook. “I don’t want it,” he snapped. “If it wasn’t for this volume-”

“If it wasn’t for this volume,” Kristof interrupted him gently, “you would not be who you now are.”

“But it’s evil,” Castiel argued, and the warlock perched on the edge of the couch. 

“Everything in this world has the potential to be evil, Castiel,” he replied. “The outcome always depends on who holds the power.”

Castiel replied quietly, “You want me to take it.”

“That is entirely up to you. Give me the word, and I will throw it into the fireplace. Yet be aware that there is much to be mined from such a book - and much to learn about how to stop the darkness of this world, be it an Underworld god or a bank robber with a gun and hostages.”

After a moment, Castiel picked up the tome. It felt simply like a book, and he looked at Kristof. 

“And now?”

“Now?” Kristof stood. “That is also up to you, Castiel. You may return to life at the university, if you wish, but know that from this time forward, things will never go back to what they were. They cannot.”

Kristof walked past him, but before he could leave the room, Castiel said quickly, “Kristof, about Balthazar...is he…” 

Kristof gave him a small smile. “He is at peace. He is Home.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Castiel nodded, and watched as Kristof left the room.

“Clarence? What was that about?” 

Castiel turned to find Meg in the archway, her expression confused. Instead of answering, he removed his truck keys from his jeans pocket and tossed them to her.

“You drive.”

“What-”

“Meg.” Castiel sighed. “There’s nothing more to be done. I just...have to continue to learn who I am now.” He held up the book. “And that includes reading from this.”

She looked shocked. “Castiel, that’s what made all this happen in the first place.”

“I know. But everything has a purpose.” 

Her expression was uncertain, but she nodded. “Well, I guess this is the end of a nightmare,” she said, as she turned and headed for the door.

Castiel heaved a sigh, and then felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He glanced around before whispering, “I love you, Balthazar.”

And it seemed he heard another whisper, one that came across many distances and times.

_ And I love you. _

  
  
  
  
  



	26. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE: 7 YEARS LATER**

Castiel laughed as Meg came hustling into the living room where he sat with his laptop open, grading end-of-semester papers for his Religion 301 class. She scolded, “Molly Bela Novak, give me that cookie! You know you can’t have dessert before dinner time!”

“But Auntieeeeeeee…” came the whine, and Castiel grinned.

“Oh, just let her eat it,” he said, as he swung Molly onto his lap and began tickling her, much to her delight and squeals. “By the time she gets it in her mouth, it will be mostly crumbs, anyway.”

Meg huffed. “Fine. But if she doesn’t eat this taco bake I’ve spent all day cooking-” Suddenly she stopped, sniffed the air, and groaned, “Oh, NO!” before racing back into the kitchen. 

Castiel looked down at Molly, who said innocently, “Can Auntie cook?”

“On occasion,” Castiel replied, and heard a muffled, “I’m not deaf, Clarence!”

Molly giggled, and Castiel found one of her most ticklish spots and began to exploit it. Soon she was writhing on his lap and screeching in glee. 

Suddenly, her flailing socked feet knocked over a manila folder beside his laptop, which tumbled to the floor and scattered papers everywhere. Before Castiel could reach down to pick them up, Molly hopped off his lap and picked up a sheet of looseleaf, scrunching up her face in confusion. 

“Daddy, what does aba...abo-”

“You want to know what ‘abomination’ means?” Castiel asked, and she nodded. He thought for a moment, and then beckoned her closer. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “That’s the word for when Auntie Meg burns our dinner.”

Molly grinned, showing two missing front teeth. “I’m gonna tell her.”

“Auntie already heard,” Meg said grumpily from the doorway. She sighed. “Looks like we order pizza tonight. Taco bake is a goner.”

“Pizza! Pizza!” Molly yelled happily, and ran out of the living room. Meg called, “You stay away from those cookies!”

Castiel chuckled as she flopped next to him on the sofa. “Losing your energy?”

She punched him lightly in the arm. “Shut up.” After a moment, she said softly, “Balthazar would be so proud of you, Castiel. Defeating Deimos and his army, becoming who you were meant to be, adopting and raising a beautiful little girl...he must be smiling down on you.”

Castiel leaned back against the cushions, staring at the framed photo of his late husband on the bookshelf. 

“Oh, I know he is, Meg. I know for sure.”

  
  
  


**END**


End file.
